. Woden was their god of war; and from
him Ida and his descendants professed to spring. We need hardly add that
it is after these objects of pagan worship that we still name the days
of the week; as Woden's day (Wednesday), Thor's day (Thursday), Frea's
day (Friday), &c. &c.

Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw from before the anger of the great
king, in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the life even of his
kindred was as a spider's thread. He sought Agitha with the rainbow
smile, where she sat with her maidens, in the groves of Budle,
ornamenting a robe of skins for her father, the mighty Ethelfrith. The
sea sang its anthem of power along the shore, and the caves of the rocks
resounded with the chorus of the eternal hymn. The farthest branches of
the grove bent over the cliff that overhung the sounding sea. The birds
of heaven sang over her head, and before her the sea-birds wheeled in
myriads, countless as the sand upon the shore, like burnished clouds
over the adjacent isles. Their bright wings flashed in the sun, like the
fitful fires that light the northern heavens.

The warrior Chylde drew near where the princess sat. There was gloom and
sorrow on his brow. 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? Art not thou renowned in song as the warrior
of the dauntless heart and the resistless sword? Art not thou the envy
of princes--the beloved of the people--the admired by the daughters of
kings? And can sadness dwell upon thy soul? Oh! thou who art as the
plume of my father's warriors, and as the pride of his host, if grief
hath entered into thy bosom, let it be buried in mine."

Then thus replied the warrior Chylde:--"Agitha--thou that art fairer,
milder than the light that plays around the brows of the summer moon,
and dearer to me than a mother's milk to the lips of her babe--it is for
thee that my countenance is sad, and my soul troubled. For thy father
has pierced my spirit with many arrows; yea, even with the poisoned
arrows of a deadly foe. He hath wrung my soul for thee, Agitha. Thou
didst give me thy heart when the sacred moon rose over the rocky Ferns
and beheld us; and while t