Until the toasts went round the board with laughter at the height.
They drank to saints and prophets old, to Peter and Isadore,
To Stephen, Vincent, Boniface, and to a dozen more.
Then valiant Wolfram in his turn upstarted with a cry:
“Drink to Archangel Michael, that good fighter in the sky,
That prince of God that all the hosts of Satan could not tame!”
Up to their feet the feasters sprang at that great angel’s name.
Clinking their cups from side to side, they made, in the torches’ flare,
The sign of the cross with their jewelled cups high flashing in the air.
Now cried the duke: “Not all the saints have felt the wind of death;