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Updated: May 1, 2025
The fierce king loved his daughter, but he loved dominion more. It was dearer to him than the light of heaven, than the face of the blessed sun. He waded through blood as water, even the blood of his victims, to set his feet upon thrones. He said unto himself "Agitha is beautiful she is fairer than her mother was. She is stately as a pine, lifting its head above the sacred oaks.
But the winds obeyed not her voice, and the sea was still. In the bay of Budle lay the vessels of the Chylde Wynde, and the weapons of his warriors flashed in the sunbeams and upon the sea. Therefore was the spirit of Queen Bethoc troubled. It was troubled lest the enchantment should be broken Agitha delivered from the spell, and her wrongs avenged.
Agitha, whose face was as the face of heaven when its glories appear as the face of the earth when its flowers give forth their fragrance Agitha is not!" And because she was not, the people mourned. Queen Bethoc alone rejoiced, and was silent.
Sleep fled from her eyes, and colour forsook her cheeks, because of her envy of the beauty of Agitha, and the hatred which she bore her. She spoke unto her father Gormack, the weird thane, that he would aid her with his sorceries against her.
The charge of their spears is as the rushing of the whirlwind. The flight of their arrows hides the face of the sun. Foes perish at their approach. Victory goeth before their face. Therefore will I go forth into a far country. I will make war upon a strange people, that I may take the kingdom from their ruler, and present his crown unto thy father for the hand of my Agitha." The maiden wept.
Broken is her wand which the vulgar feared. That mine eyes might behold my son, this cave became my abode. Superstition walled it round with fire." "And Agitha?" gasped the warrior. "Behold!" answered she, "the loathly worm at the feet of thy mother." The skins of fish of the deep sea were sewed together with cords they were fashioned into the form of a great serpent.
The spirit of evil spread his darkness over her soul. He filled her breast with the poison of asps, her eyes with the venom of the adder that lures to destruction. At the entrance of the tower of kings stood Agitha, lovely as the spirits that dwell among the stars, and give beauty to the beings of earth. She knelt before the queen. She offered her a daughter's homage.
And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders, was hailed as Rowena, the mother of Wynde, the subduer of princes; yea, even of Chylde Wynde, the beloved, and the lord of Agitha the Beautiful. Such was the tale of the Saxon bard.
"Daughter of wickedness!" shouted the Chylde, "break thy accursed spell; restore the fair form of my Agitha, else the blood of thy heart shall dissolve the charm." "Hearken, O Chylde," cried the enchantress; "thou subduer of kings, thou vanquisher of the strong sharp is thy sword, but against me it hath no power. Would it pierce the breast that suckled thee? the breast of her that bore thee?"
The echoes of the grove answered to his sighs. Agitha heard them. She beheld the cloud of anguish that was before his countenance. The robe of skins dropped from her hand. Her eyes, that were as the morning light, became dim. She arose and went forward to meet him. "Wherefore," she inquired, "does my hero sigh, and why sits heaviness on the brightness of his face?
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