Far, far behind, the others all
Were long ago pass’d by:
He flies alone. With one great bound,
He clears the barrier high.
“My lord the king, your royal word
Is pledged that so it be:
The fair Linor I therefore crave,
For surely mine is she.”
“The princess Linor think not thou
In any wise to win.
No sorcerer my daughter weds,
Nor any of his kin.”
An aged man, whose snowy beard
Upon his breast flowed down,
White as the wool by furze-brake torn
Upon the moorland brown—
An aged man, with robe of wool,
Bordered by silver band
Throughout its length, sat by the king,
Upon the king’s right hand.