The Ghost.
“Begone! flee to thy land,” replied the Form,
“Flee on [the dismal tempest], flee, begone!
The blast is [in the hollow] of my hand.
Mine are the conflict and the speed of storms;
The King of Sora is a Son of mine;
He kneels down in the mountain to my form;
At Rock of Hundreds he upholds the strife,
And scathless he shall gain the victory,
Begone to thine own land, thou Cuhal’s son,