He leapt as frightened chamois leap
And ran like a stricken deer.
Dusk threw a hateful shadow
On the King's countenance
"The guerdons of thy skill," cried he,
"Or, boy, thy luck, perchance?
This figured ivory drinking horn!
This turquoise-hilted sword!
But ... shall I see no marvel
Ere day dips in the fiord?"