And as St. Withiel’s terror grew,
The crying of the pack
Bayed nearer, as though terror drew
Those grip teeth to his back.
No hope was in his soul, no stay,
Nothing but screaming will
To save his terror-stricken clay
Before the hounds could kill.
The laid corn tripped, the bramble caught,
He stumbled on the stones;
The thorn that scratched him, to his thought,
Was hell’s teeth at his bones.
His legs seemed bound as in a dream,
The wet earth held his feet,
He screamed aloud as rabbits scream
Before the stoat’s teeth meet.
A black thing struck him on the brow,
A blackness loomed and waved;
It was a tree—he caught a bough
And scrambled up it, saved.
Saved for the moment, as he thought,
He pressed against the bark:
The hell-hounds missed the thing they sought,
They quartered in the dark.
They panted underneath the tree,
They quartered to the call;
The hunter cried: “Yoi doit, go see!”
His death-horn blew a fall.
Now up, now down, the hell-hounds went
With soft feet padding wide;
They tried, but could not hit the scent,
However hard they tried.
Then presently the horn was blown,
The hounds were called away;
The hoof-beats glittered on the stone
And trotted on the brae.
* * * *
The saint gat strength, but with it came
A horror of his fear,
Anguish at having failed, and shame,
And sense of judgment near:
Anguish at having left his charge
And having failed his trust,
At having flung his sword and targe
To save his body’s dust.