“Behold,” said Morven, taking up a chaplet of colored plumes, “wear this on thy head, and put on a brave face--for the people like a hopeful spirit--and go down with thy brother to the place where the new king is to be chosen, and leave the rest to the stars.
“But, above all things, forget not that chaplet; it has been blessed by the gods of night.”
The prince took the chaplet and returned home.
It was evening and the warriors and chiefs of the tribe were assembled in the place where the new king was to be elected.
And the voices of the many favored Prince Voltoch, the brother of Siror, for he had slain twelve foeman with his spear; and verily, in those days, that was a great virtue in a king.
Suddenly there was a shout in the streets, and the people cried out:
“Way for Morven, the prophet, the prophet!”
For the people held the son of Osslah in even greater respect than did the chiefs.
Now, since he had become of note, Morven had assumed a majesty of air which the son of the herdsman knew not in his earlier days; and albeit his stature was short, and his limbs halted, yet his countenance was grave and high.
He only of the tribe wore a garment that swept the ground, and his head was bare, and his long black hair descended to his girdle, and rarely was change or human passion seen in his calm aspect.
He feasted not, nor drank wine, nor was his presence frequent in the streets.
He laughed not, neither did he smile, save when alone in the forest--and then he laughed at the follies of his tribe.
So he walked slowly through the crowd, neither turning to the left nor to the right, as the crowd gave way; and he supported his steps with a staff of the knotted pine.
And when he came to the place where the chiefs were met, and the two princes stood in the centre, he bade the people around him proclaim silence.
Then mounting on a huge fragment of rock, he thus spake to the multitude:
“Princes, wantons and bards! ye, O council of the wise men! and ye, O hunters of the forests, and snarers of the fishes of the streams! harken to Morven, the son of Osslah.
“Ye know that I am lowly of race, and weak of limb; but did I not give into your hands the tribe of Alrich, and did ye not slay them in the dead of night with a great slaughter?