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XXIX
Ha! but the good knight, striding forth
From Set’s abominable shrine,
Pursues the quest with bitter wrath,
So that his words flow out like wine.
And lo! the soul that heareth them
Is straightway healed of suffering.
His fame runs through the land of Khem:
They flock, the peasant and the king.
There he works many a miracle:
The blind see, and the cripples walk;
Lepers grow clean ; sick folk grow well ;
The deaf men hear, the dumb men talk.
He casts out devils with a word;
Circleth his wand, and dead men rise.
No such a wonder hath been heard
Since Christ our God’s sweet sacrifice.
“Now, by the glad blood of our Lord!”
Quoth Palamede, “ my heart is light.
I am the chosen harpsichord
Whereon God playeth ; the perfect knight,