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 battle-steeds, 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 tree-tops. It gripped the
oak by its branches and tore it from its 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 towards 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.
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