"She was born amid the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale was singing.

And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that is dug for it to the determined end.

And nothing resisted her.

Neither man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose against her magic.
The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawning in her path.

For she is without fear--as she is without mercy.