The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

16 THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD His strength is done; he cannot stir. The child complains—how feebly now! His eyes are blank ; he looks at her; The cold sweat gathers on his brow. To save the world—three days away|! His life in knighthood’s life is furled, And knighthood’s life in his—to-day |— His darling staked against the world | Will he die there, his task undone? Or dare he live, at such a cost? He cries against the impassive sun : The world is dim, is all but lost. Then, with the bitterness of death Cutting his soul, his fingers clench The piteous passage of her breath. The dews of horror rise and drench Sir Palamede the Saracen. Then, rising from the hideous meal, He plunges to the land of men With nerves renewed and limbs of steel. Who is the naked man that rides Yon tameless stallion on the plain, His face like Hell's? What fury guides The maniac beast without a rein?