And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,

Of hair that red and tufted fell,

It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—

The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;

The moon was bright, the iceberg near.

He hears a voice sigh humbly, "Wait!

By high permission I am here.

"One moment wait, thou holy man!