But at that instant, ere the war had broken forth among the tribe, the three warriors returned, and they bore Darvan on their shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the king, and they said tremblingly, "Thus found we the elder in the centre of his own hall." And the people saw that Darvan was a corpse, and that the prediction of Morven was thus verified.

"So perish the enemies of Morven and the stars!" cried the son of Osslah.
And the people echoed the cry.

Then the fury of Siror was at its height, and waving his sword above his head he plunged into the crowd, "Thy blood, baseborn, or mine!" "So be it!" answered Morven, quailing not.

"People, smite the blasphemer! Hark how the river pours down upon your children and your hearths! On, on, or ye perish!" And Siror fell, pierced by five hundred spears.
"Smite! smite!" cried Morven, as the chiefs of the royal house gathered round the king.

And the clash of swords, and the gleam of spears, and the cries of the dying, and the yell of the trampling people mingled with the roar of the elements, and the voices of the rushing wave.
Three hundred of the chiefs perished that night by the swords of their own tribe; and the last cry of the victors was, "Morven the prophet! _Morven the king!_" And the son of Osslah, seeing the waves now spreading over the valley, led Orna his wife, and the men of Oestrich, their women, and their children, to a high mount, where they waited the dawning sun.