He met with welcome glad; good wine went freely flowing. At last, for all such cheer, the guest must take his leave. Himself then he prepared to climb into his saddle, And turned his beast about, that home were soon attained. The day was bleak and raw; the sun of light was chary; Through clouds before its face, a pallid light descended. The wise steed careful stepped onward along the highway, Its sober rider borne, as custom was, unwearied. Anon the usual drowse closed up the rider's eyelids: His beast walked calmly on, in faithfulness of service; The man, profoundly sleeping, traveled as he was wonted; The time at last brought near when he should reach his dwelling. But lo! a friend is met, who questions him in wonder:-- "How possible it was his steed had brought him thither?" The knight responded straight--"Why, I the way have ridden That, during seven years, I constantly have come; My beast on which I sit hath borne me duly houseward-- The midnight's dark itself makes not his foot unsteady." "How, friend?" his questioner cried, "even when _the bridge_ is broken? The stream to cross at all, no other means I know: This wondrous horse of thine old Perseus must have owned, Who fought the dragon once, and cut its head to pieces. Things sure are as they were! You came not flying hither! It seems to me, belike, a ghost has been your cheater. To take it otherwise, the joke to me seems pointless. Not possible it is, this story that you tell me. But that o'er such a thing no wrangling be between us, Come to the bridge with me; I gladly will be escort. The spot and fact themselves, in proof I straight will disclose, That you may note how ill goes with your word the matter." Whereto so long a speech? The Knight was well persuaded; The flood is reached again, the truth of things lies open! Bridge is there none indeed--rests but a strip of planking, Crossing the rushing wave, narrow and all unsteady. The foot of man must needs with prudence o'er it tiptoe, The nerve and will be firm to reach that further goal. The foot that is not true, that left or right shall waver, Drowns in the flood below the passenger unlucky. When now the man of naps marks all at once the bridge, Notes well the narrow path, marks the too slender footway, His shock in truth is great; loud his poor heart goes beating. In fear and shudders cold, the scene he stands and pictures; Sees with a frightened eye just how his path has served him. And more and more his soul sickens with tardy terror, More to his heart the blood, driven away, goes rushing;-- That hour of fear to him brought him an endless illness.