To wait on time and all that time might bring
Of good or evil. Then from Gregory
Came messengers, who told of Merow’s flight,
And that the hounds of Fredegonde pursued
The fugitive through all frequented ways,
And forests, and waste places, and the lone
Bare mountains, sterile underneath the stars,
Yea, every valley, every hidden place,
Lest they should lose him, and the harlot queen
Avenge on them her seat grown insecure,