So presently men beheld them marching toward their place, cleaving the throng of the women and children, a great company; for besides that they had with them two score more of men under weapons than on the day of the Weapon-show, all their little ones and women and outworn elders were with them, some on foot, some riding on oxen and asses. In their forefront went the two signs of the Battle-shaft and the War-spear. But moreover, in front of all was borne a great staff with the cloth of a banner wrapped round about it, and tied up with a hempen yarn that it might not be seen. Stark and mighty men they looked; tall and lean, broad-shouldered, dark-faced. As they came amongst the throng the voice of their horn died out, and for a few moments they fared on with no sound save the tramp of their feet; then all at once the man who bare the hidden banner lifted up one hand, and straightway they fell to singing, and with that song they came to their place. And this is some of what they sang: O white, white Sun, what things of wonder Hast thou beheld from thy wall of the sky! All the Roofs of the Rich and the grief thereunder, As the fear of the Earl-folk flitteth by! Thou hast seen the Flame steal forth from the Forest To slay the slumber of the lands, As the Dusky Lord whom thou abhorrest Clomb up to thy Burg unbuilt with hands. Thou lookest down from thy door the golden, Nor batest thy wide-shining mirth, As the ramparts fall, and the roof-trees olden Lie smouldering low on the burning earth. When flitteth the half-dark night of summer From the face of the murder great and grim, ’Tis thou thyself and no new-comer Shines golden-bright on the deed undim. Art thou our friend, O Day-dawn’s Lover? Full oft thine hand hath sent aslant Bright beams athwart the Wood-bear’s cover, Where the feeble folk and the nameless haunt. Thou hast seen us quail, thou hast seen us cower, Thou hast seen us crouch in the Green Abode, While for us wert thou slaying slow hour by hour, And smoothing down the war-rough road. Yea, the rocks of the Waste were thy Dawns upheaving, To let the days of the years go through; And thy Noons the tangled brake were cleaving The slow-foot seasons’ deed to do. Then gaze adown on this gift of our giving, For the WOLF comes wending frith and ford, And the Folk fares forth from the dead to the living, For the love of the Lief by the light of the Sword.