“Away, I am no graybeard whom the approach of death makes doting: talk not to me of the stars; I know only the things that my eye sees and my ear drinks in.” “Hush,” said Morven, solemnly, and covering his face; “hush! lest the heavens avenge thy rashness. But, behold, the stars have given unto me to pierce the secret hearts of others; and I can tell thee the thoughts of thine.” “Speak out, base-born!” “Thou art the younger of two, and thy name is less known in war than the name of thy brother: yet wouldst thou desire to be set over his head, and to sit on the high seat of thy father?” The young man turned pale. “Thou hast truth in thy lips,” said he, with a faltering voice. “Not from me, but from the stars, descends the truth.” “Can the stars grant my wish?” “They can: let us meet to-morrow.” Thus saying, Morven passed into the forest. The next day, at noon, they met again. “I have consulted the gods of night, and they have given me the power that I prayed for, but on one condition.” “Name it.” “That thou sacrifice thy sister on their altars; thou must build up a heap of stones, and take thy sister into the wood, and lay her on the pile, and plunge thy sword into her heart; so only shalt thou reign.” The prince shuddered, and started to his feet, and shook his spear at the pale front of Morven. “Tremble,” said the son of Osslah, with a loud voice. “Hark to the gods who threaten thee with death, that thou hast dared to lift thine arm against their servant!” As he spoke, the thunder rolled above; for one of the frequent storms of the early summer was about to break. The spear dropped from the prince’s hand; he sat down, and cast his eyes on the ground. “Wilt thou do the bidding of the stars, and reign?” said Morven. “I will!” cried Siror, with a desperate voice. “This evening, then, when the sun sets, thou wilt lead her hither, alone; I may not attend thee. Now, let us pile the stones.” Silently the huntsman bent his vast strength to the fragments of rock that Morven pointed to him, and they built the altar, and went their way. And beautiful is the dying of the great sun, when the last song of the birds fades into the lap of silence; when the islands of the cloud are bathed in light, and the first star springs up over the grave of day! “Whither leadest thou my steps, my brother?” said Orna; “and why doth thy lip quiver; and why dost thou turn away thy face?” “Is not the forest beautiful; does it not tempt us forth, my sister?” “And wherefore are those heaps of stone piled together?” “Let others answer; I piled them not.” “Thou tremblest, brother: we will return.” “Not so; by these stones is a bird that my shaft pierced today,--a bird of beautiful plumage that I slew for thee.” “We are by the pile; where hast thou laid the bird?” “Here!” cried Siror; and he seized the maiden in his arms, and, casting her on the rude altar, he drew forth his sword to smite her to the heart.