“Climb down, you huntsman out of hell,
And show me what you are.
The judge has stricken on the bell,
Now answer at the bar.”
The baying of the hounds fell still,
Their jaws’ salt fire died.
The wind of morning struck in chill
Along that countryside.
The blackness of the horse was shrunk,
His sides seemed ribbed and old.
The rider, hooded like a monk,
Was trembling with the cold.
The rider bowed as though with pain;
Then clambered down and stood,
The thin thing that the frightened brain
Had fed with living blood.
“Show me. What are you?” said the saint.
A hollow murmur spoke.
“This, Lord,” it said; a hand moved faint
And drew aside the cloak.
A Woman Death that palsy shook
Stood sick and dwindling there;
Her fingers were a bony crook,
And blood was on her hair.
“Stretch out your hands and sign the Cross,”
Was all St. Withiel said.
The bloodhounds moaned upon the moss,
The Woman Death obeyed.
Whimpering with pain, she made the sign.
“Go, devil-hag,” said he,
“Beyond all help of bread and wine,
Beyond all land and sea,
“Into the ice, into the snow,
Where Death himself is stark!
Out, with your hounds about you, go,
And perish in the dark!”
They dwindled as the mist that fades
At coming of the sun;
Like rags of stuff that fire abrades
They withered and were done.