the poor in the land where she had taken refuge. All was
well for some months until the king found them. Immedi-
ately, he ordered that the priest’s head be cut off, and so
it was.
“Daughter,” he spoke, his own sword heavy in his hand,
“there is no call for your death this day. Return to me, and
become my wife in your mother’s stead, and together we
can rule.”
But Dympha refused, and as she lifted her chin in defi-
ance, her father spied the long milky path of her neck, and
his desire twined tight with his rage, and his sword, which
had been limp at his side, rose high and mighty into the air.
And he fell upon his daughter, and his sword impaled
her neck, and her head rolled free to where her confessor’s
rested, her eyes turned heavenward, toward where her soul
had gone to live happily ever after.
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