A terror came upon the saint, It stripped his spirit bare; He was sick body standing faint, Cold sweat and stiffened hair. He took his terror by the throat And stamped it underfoot; Then, far away, the death-horn’s note Quailed like a screech-owl’s hoot. Still far away that devil’s horn Its quavering death-note blew, But the saint could hear the crackling thorn That the hounds trod as they drew. “Lord, it is true,” St. Withiel moaned, “And the hunt is drawing near! Devils that Paradise disowned, They know that I am here. “And there, O God, a hound gives tongue, And great hounds quarter dim”-- The saint’s hands to his body clung, He knew they came for him. Then close at hand the horn was loud, Like Peter’s cock of old For joy that Peter’s soul was cowed, And Jesus’ body sold. Then terribly the hounds in cry Gave answer to the horn; The saint in terror turned to fly Before his flesh was torn. After his body came the hounds, After the hounds the horse; Their running crackled with the sounds Of fire that runs in gorse. The saint’s breath failed, but still they came: The hunter cheered them on, Even as a wind that blows a flame In the vigil of St. John. And as St. Withiel’s terror grew, The crying of the pack Bayed nearer, as though terror drew Those grip teeth to his back. No hope was in his soul, no stay, Nothing but screaming will To save his terror-stricken clay Before the hounds could kill. The laid corn tripped, the bramble caught, He stumbled on the stones; The thorn that scratched him, to his thought, Was hell’s teeth at his bones. His legs seemed bound as in a dream, The wet earth held his feet, He screamed aloud as rabbits scream Before the stoat’s teeth meet. A black thing struck him on the brow, A blackness loomed and waved; It was a tree--he caught a bough And scrambled up it, saved. Saved for the moment, as he thought, He pressed against the bark: The hell-hounds missed the thing they sought, They quartered in the dark. They panted underneath the tree, They quartered to the call; The hunter cried: “Yoi doit, go see!” His death-horn blew a fall. Now up, now down, the hell-hounds went With soft feet padding wide; They tried, but could not hit the scent, However hard they tried. Then presently the horn was blown, The hounds were called away; The hoof-beats glittered on the stone And trotted on the brae. * * * * * The saint gat strength, but with it came A horror of his fear, Anguish at having failed, and shame, And sense of judgment near: