THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 
61 
The king was silent.  None of us would stir. 
I sat, struck dumb, a living sepulchre. 
For—hear me !  in my heart this thing became 
My sacrament, my pentecostal flame. 
And with it grew a fear—a fear of Her. 
What Her ?  Shame had not found itself a name. 
 
Simply I knew it in myself.  I brood 
Ten years—so seemed it—O !  the bitter food 
In my mouth nauseate !  In the silent hall 
One might have heard God’s sparrow in its fall. 
But I was lost in mine own solitude— 
I should not hear Mikhael’s trumpet-call. 
 
Yet there did grow a clamour shrill and loud : 
One cursed, one crossed himself, another vowed 
His soul against the quest ;  the tumult ran 
Indecorous in that presence, man to man. 
Stilled suddenly, beholding how I bowed 
My soul in thought :  another cry began. 
 
“ Gereth the dauntless !  Gereth of the Sea ! 
Gereth the loyal !  Child of royalty ! 
Witch-mothered Gereth !  Sword above the strong, 
Heart pure, head many-wiled ! ”  The knightly throng 
Clamour my name, and flattering words, to me— 
If they may ’scape the quest—I do them wrong ; 
 
They are my friends—Yet something terrible 
Rings in the manly music that they swell.