IV

A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock tumbling

from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream: the baffled waters broken

and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, foaming

and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain whether to turn to the

right or the left.

Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts and

passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and wonder,

reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not

which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the stranger as an insult

to their gods, or to welcome him as the rescuer of their prince.

The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels

troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be

appeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse

and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the

blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; seize the

stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and make his life pay

the forfeit of his daring.

The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The fire

flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each other and

fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earth

with his spear and gave his decision.

“All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the council.

Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words shall give us

judgment, whether he is to live or to die.”

Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchment

from his bosom, and began to read.

“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne, to

the people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians, Franks and Saxons.

In nomin Domini, sanctae et individuae Trinitatis, amen!”

A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. “It is the sacred tongue of the

Romans; the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of every

land. There is magic in it. Listen!”

Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech of

the people.

“We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your

bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptise you, and

lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation. Hearken

to him in all things like a father. Bow your hearts to his teaching. He

comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls. Depart from

evil works. Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer

no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our

Brother Boniface commands you. Build a house for him that he may dwell

among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only

living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.”

It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The dignity

of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people. They were

quieted as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music.

“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest to

us from the Almighty? What is thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland

on this night of sacrifice?”

“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried. “Not a

drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from

the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall be

blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the tree

which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away. For this

is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and

Saviour of mankind. Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater than

Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since He has come to earth

the bloody sacrifice must cease. The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call,

is dead. Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His power

in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless god? See, my brothers,

you call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here? Does he protect it?”

A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people stirred

uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head and muttered

hoarsely, “Thor! take vengeance! Thor!”

Winfried beckoned to Gregor. “Bring the axes, thine and one for me. Now,

young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the forest must fall,

and swiftly, or all is lost!”

The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side of

the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare. Carefully

they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth.

Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades.

“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!”

“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty? Thus we fight thee!”

Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard, ringing

wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierce

eagles circling about their quarry.

The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sides

of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering in the

branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass.

Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise sounded

overhead.

Was it the ancient gods on their white battlesteeds, with their black

hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the air

to destroy their foes?

A strong, whirling wind passed over the treetops. It gripped the oak by

its branches and tore it from the roots. Backward it fell, like a ruined

tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces.

Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the

presence of almighty power.

Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” he cried, “already

felled and split for your new building. On this spot shall rise a chapel

to the true God and his servant St. Peter.

“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standing

straight and green, with its top pointing toward the stars, amid the

divided ruins of the fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no stain

of blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. See how it

points to the sky. Call it the tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and

carry it to the chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more into the shadows

of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame. You

shall keep them at home, with laughter and songs and rites of love. The

thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there shall

not be a home in all Germany where the children are not gathered around

the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of Christ.”

So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyous

procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge. The

horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the new

burden had made it lighter.

When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open the

doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They kindled

lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full of

fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odour of

the balsam filled the house.

Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at the end

of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe in the manger,

of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of angels and their midnight

song. All the people listened, charmed into stillness.

But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded in her soft arms, grew

restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at his

mother’s ear.

“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry out so loud, when the

priest was going to send me to Valhalla?”

“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and pressed him closer to her

side.

“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains upon

her breast, “see, your dress is red! What are these stains? Did some one

hurt you?”

The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. “Dear, be still, and listen!”

The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the last

words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers, flying over the

hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child wondered and dreamed

and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. He put his lips close to

Irma’s cheek again.

“Oh, mother!” he whispered very low, “do not speak. Do you hear them?

Those angels have come back again. They are singing now behind the

tree.”

And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only Gregor

and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting their

Christmas hymn:

All glory be to God on high,

And on the earth be peace!

Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to man,

Begin and never cease.