Thrice cried he piteously then
Upon our Lord. Then shook his head
Sir Palamede the Saracen,
As knowing nothing might bestead,
When lo! there rose a monster moan,
A hugeous cry, a questing dread,
As if (God’s death ! ) there coursed alone
The Beast, within whose belly sounds
That marvellous music monotone
As if a thirty couple hounds
Quested within him. Now, by Christ
And by His pitiful five wounds |—
Even as a lover to his tryst,
That Beast came questing in the hall,
One flame of gold and amethyst,
Bodily seen then of them all.
Then came he to Sir Palamede,
Nestling to him, as sweet and small
As a young babe clings at its need
To the white bosom of its mother,
As Christ clung to the gibbet-reed!
Then every knight turned to his brother,
Sobbing and sighing for great gladness;
And, as they looked on one another,
SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT