Had burned and glowed to thunderous amethyst
Of evening skies about an opal moon;
Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fame
Of young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm;
Until it seemed that storm must overwhelm
Their weary flight. They sought a lodging-place,
And soon upon a lonely cell they came
Wherein a hermit laboured after grace.
On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm,
He housed them, and himself, all night, alone,