As for their road, the grassy space between the rock-wall and the water was wide and smooth at first, and the cliffs rose up like bundles of spear-shafts high and clear from the green grass with no confused litter of fallen stones; so that the men strode on briskly, their hearts high-raised and full of hope. And as they went, the sweetness of song stirred in their souls, and at last Bow-may fell to singing in a loud clear voice, and her cousin Wood-wise answered her, and all the warriors of the Wolf who were in their band fell into the song at the ending, and the sound of their melody went down the water and reached the ears of those that were entering the pass, and of those who were abiding till the way should be clear of them: and this is some of what they sang: _Bow-may singeth_: Hear ye never a voice come crying Out from the waste where the winds fare wide? ‘Sons of the Wolf, the days are dying, And where in the clefts of the rocks do ye hide? ‘Into your hands hath the Sword been given, Hard are the palms with the kiss of the hilt; Through the trackless waste hath the road been riven For the blade to seek to the heart of the guilt. ‘And yet ye bide and yet ye tarry; Dear deem ye the sleep ’twixt hearth and board, And sweet the maiden mouths ye marry, And bright the blade of the bloodless sword.’ _Wood-wise singeth_: Yea, here we dwell in the arms of our Mother The Shadowy Queen, and the hope of the Waste; Here first we came, when never another Adown the rocky stair made haste. Far is the foe, and no sword beholdeth What deed we work and whither we wend; Dear are the days, and the Year enfoldeth The love of our life from end to end. Voice of our Fathers, why will ye move us, And call up the sun our swords to behold? Why will ye cry on the foeman to prove us? Why will ye stir up the heart of the bold? _Bow-may singeth_: Purblind am I, the voice of the chiding; Then tell me what is the thing ye bear? What is the gift that your hands are hiding, The gold-adorned, the dread and dear? _Wood-wise singeth_: Dark in the sheath lies the Anvil’s Brother, Hid is the hammered Death of Men. Would ye look on the gift of the green-clad Mother? How then shall ye ask for a gift again? _The Warriors sing_: Show we the Sunlight the Gift of the Mother, As foot follows foot to the foeman’s den! Gleam Sun, breathe Wind, on the Anvil’s Brother, For bare is the hammered Death of Men.