See, to the northward how light it has grown,
see how the fog lifts o’er fiord and o’er valley—
there gather noiselessly galley on galley—
hark! men are marching with rumble and drone!
One word of promise, and all is your own—
hundreds of glittering sails on the water,
thousands of warriors hurtling to slaughter.
King Skule.
What word would you have?
The Monk.