The saint stood still until they came Baying to ring him round: A horse whose flecking foam was flame, And hound on yelling hound. And jaws that dripped with bitter fire Snarled at the saint to tear. Pilled hell-hounds, balder than the geier, Leaped round him everywhere. St. Withiel let the hell-hounds rave. He cried: “Now, in this place, Climb down, you huntsman of the grave, And let me see your face. “Climb down, you huntsman out of hell, And show me what you are. The judge has stricken on the bell, Now answer at the bar.” The baying of the hounds fell still, Their jaws’ salt fire died. The wind of morning struck in chill Along that countryside. The blackness of the horse was shrunk, His sides seemed ribbed and old. The rider, hooded like a monk, Was trembling with the cold. The rider bowed as though with pain; Then clambered down and stood, The thin thing that the frightened brain Had fed with living blood. “Show me. What are you?” said the saint. A hollow murmur spoke. “This, Lord,” it said; a hand moved faint And drew aside the cloak. A Woman Death that palsy shook Stood sick and dwindling there; Her fingers were a bony crook, And blood was on her hair. “Stretch out your hands and sign the Cross,” Was all St. Withiel said. The bloodhounds moaned upon the moss, The Woman Death obeyed. Whimpering with pain, she made the sign. “Go, devil-hag,” said he, “Beyond all help of bread and wine, Beyond all land and sea, “Into the ice, into the snow, Where Death himself is stark! Out, with your hounds about you, go, And perish in the dark!” They dwindled as the mist that fades At coming of the sun; Like rags of stuff that fire abrades They withered and were done. The cock, that scares the ghost from earth, Crowed as they dwindled down; The red sun, happy in his girth, Strode up above the town. Sweetly above the sunny wold The bells of churches rang; The sheep-bells clinked within the fold, And the larks went up and sang; Sang for the setting free of men From devils that destroyed; The lark, the robin, and the wren, They joyed and over-joyed. The chats that harbour in the whin, Their little sweet throats swelled, The blackbird and the thrush joined in, The missel-thrush excelled. Till round the saint the singing made A beauty in the air, An ecstasy that cannot fade But is for ever there. ANIMULA