Then night fell over the fen,
And he mused, still stumbling on,
“Out of the world of men
Into the shades I go!”
And he grimly laughed, when lo,
A light on his pathway shone!
“Mine enemy’s tower!” he said,
As the beacon beckoned him. “Well,
Succor were likely as bread
To be had from a shard or stone,
Or meat from a wolf-gnawed bone,
Or hope in the heart of hell!”
Yet he steered him sheer on the flare,
With a “Here or there, ’tis one!
A corpse in the morning air,
Frozen as rigid as steel,
Or a form on gibbet or wheel,—
What matters it how ’tis done!”
He clanged a summons clear,
Keeping his grip on hate;
And he wavered not to hear
A word from a tongue abhorred,—
Then back swung the outer ward,
And his enemy stood in the gate.
Eyes upon burning eyes
Hung, as when war-fires rule
Under the angry skies;
Then, ere the wrath-flame died,
“Welcome!” his enemy cried,
“For this is the eve of Yule.”
Into the banquet-hall
He was bid as a chosen guest;
And there before them all
Did his enemy give him meat,
And bread of the finest wheat,
And golden wine of the best.
Then was he brought to a room
Where rugs were soft on the floor,
And a fire made fair the gloom;
And, warned with a stern behest
Of the sacred rights of a guest,
A guard was set at the door.
Through the black night-watches long
Did he wait on sleep, but when
Came the peal of the matin song
No slumber had kissed his brow;
So he girded himself, for now
The sunlight lay on the fen.
Then once more did his foe
Proffer him drink and food;
Forth to the court below
Did his enemy lead the way,
Where, as one for a fray,
Chafing, a charger stood.
“Hate!—it is burned into shame;
Scorn!—of myself is the scorn;
Blame!—I confess to the blame;
Vengeance is thine!” he said,
And with averted head
He rode out into the morn.