Before him now she came and, kneeling, spake,
With slow, clear-welling voice: "In ages old
This helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold,
For one who, in the after-days, should be
Supreme above his kind, as, in the brake
Of branching fern, the solitary tree
That crests the fell-top. Unto you I bring
The gift of destiny, that, as the sun
New-risen of your knighthood, newly-won,
The wondering world may see its glory shine."