The Sword of Welleran

Where the great plain of Tarphet runs up, as the sea in estuaries,

among the Cyresian mountains, there stood long since the city of

Merimna well-nigh among the shadows of the crags. I have never seen a

city in the world so beautiful as Merimna seemed to me when first I

dreamed of it. It was a marvel of spires and figures of bronze, and

marble fountains, and trophies of fabulous wars, and broad streets

given over wholly to the Beautiful. Right through the centre of the

city there went an avenue fifty strides in width, and along each side

of it stood likenesses in bronze of the Kings of all the countries that

the people of Merimna had ever known. At the end of that avenue was a

colossal chariot with three bronze horses driven by the winged figure

of Fame, and behind her in the chariot the huge form of Welleran,

Merimna’s ancient hero, standing with extended sword. So urgent was

the mien and attitude of Fame, and so swift the pose of the horses,

that you had sworn that the chariot was instantly upon you, and that

its dust already veiled the faces of the Kings. And in the city was

a mighty hall wherein were stored the trophies of Merimna’s heroes.

Sculptured it was and domed, the glory of the art of masons a long

while dead, and on the summit of the dome the image of Rollory sat

gazing across the Cyresian mountains towards the wide lands beyond, the

lands that knew his sword. And beside Rollory, like an old nurse, the

figure of Victory sat, hammering into a golden wreath of laurels for

his head the crowns of fallen Kings.

Such was Merimna, a city of sculptured Victories and warriors of

bronze. Yet in the time of which I write the art of war had been

forgotten in Merimna, and the people almost slept. To and fro and

up and down they would walk through the marble streets, gazing at

memorials of the things achieved by their country’s swords in the hands

of those that long ago had loved Merimna well. Almost they slept, and

dreamed of Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and young

Iraine. Of the lands beyond the mountains that lay all round about them

they knew nothing, save that they were the theatre of the terrible

deeds of Welleran, that he had done with his sword. Long since these

lands had fallen back into the possession of the nations that had been

scourged by Merimna’s armies. Nothing now remained to Merimna’s men

save their inviolate city and the glory of the remembrance of their

ancient fame. At night they would place sentinels far out in the

desert, but these always slept at their posts dreaming of Rollory, and

three times every night a guard would march around the city clad in

purple, bearing lights and singing songs of Welleran. Always the guard

went unarmed, but as the sound of their song went echoing across the

plain towards the looming mountains, the desert robbers would hear

the name of Welleran and steal away to their haunts. Often dawn would

come across the plain, shimmering marvellously upon Merimna’s spires,

abashing all the stars, and find the guard still singing songs of

Welleran, and would change the colour of their purple robes and pale

the lights they bore. But the guard would go back leaving the ramparts

safe, and one by one the sentinels in the plain would awake from

dreaming of Rollory and shuffle back into the city quite cold. Then

something of the menace would pass away from the faces of the Cyresian

mountains, that from the north and the west and the south lowered upon

Merimna, and clear in the morning the statues and the pillars would

arise in the old inviolate city. You would wonder that an unarmed guard

and sentinels that slept could defend a city that was stored with all

the glories of art, that was rich in gold and bronze, a haughty city

that had erst oppressed its neighbours, whose people had forgotten the

art of war. Now this is the reason that, though all her other lands

had long been taken from her, Merimna’s city was safe. A strange thing

was believed or feared by the fierce tribes beyond the mountains, and

it was credited among them that at certain stations round Merimna’s

ramparts there still rode Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory,

Akanax, and young Iraine. Yet it was close on a hundred years since

Iraine, the youngest of Merimna’s heroes, fought his last battle with

the tribes.

Sometimes indeed there arose among the tribes young men who doubted and

said: ‘How may a man for ever escape death?’

But graver men answered them: ‘Hear us, ye whose wisdom has discerned

so much, and discern for us how a man may escape death when two score

horsemen assail him with their swords, all of them sworn to kill him,

and all of them sworn upon their country’s gods; as often Welleran

hath. Or discern for us how two men alone may enter a walled city by

night, and bring away from it that city’s king, as did Soorenard and

Mommolek. Surely men that have escaped so many swords and so many

sleety arrows shall escape the years and Time.’

And the young men were humbled and became silent. Still, the suspicion

grew. And often when the sun set on the Cyresian mountains, men in

Merimna discerned the forms of savage tribesmen black against the

light, peering towards the city.

All knew in Merimna that the figures round the ramparts were only

statues of stone, yet even there a hope lingered among a few that some

day their old heroes would come again, for certainly none had ever seen

them die. Now it had been the wont of these six warriors of old, as

each received his last wound and knew it to be mortal, to ride away to

a certain deep ravine and cast his body in, as somewhere I have read

great elephants do, hiding their bones away from lesser beasts. It was

a ravine steep and narrow even at the ends, a great cleft into which no

man could come by any path. There rode Welleran alone, panting hard;

and there later rode Soorenard and Mommolek, Mommolek with a mortal

wound upon him not to return, but Soorenard was unwounded and rode back

alone from leaving his dear friend resting among the mighty bones of

Welleran. And there rode Soorenard, when his day was come, with Rollory

and Akanax, and Rollory rode in the middle and Soorenard and Akanax on

either side. And the long ride was a hard and weary thing for Soorenard

and Akanax, for they both had mortal wounds; but the long ride was

easy for Rollory, for he was dead. So the bones of these five heroes

whitened in an enemy’s land, and very still they were, though they

had troubled cities, and none knew where they lay saving only Iraine,

the young captain, who was but twenty-five when Mommolek, Rollory,

and Akanax rode away. And among them were strewn their saddles and

their bridles, and all the accoutrements of their horses, lest any man

should ever find them afterwards and say in some foreign city: ‘Lo! the

bridles or the saddles of Merimna’s captains, taken in war,’ but their

beloved trusty horses they turned free.

Forty years afterwards, in the hour of a great victory, his last wound

came upon Iraine, and the wound was terrible and would not close. And

Iraine was the last of the captains, and rode away alone. It was a long

way to the dark ravine, and Iraine feared that he would never come to

the resting-place of the old heroes, and he urged his horse on swiftly,

and clung to the saddle with his hands. And often as he rode he fell

asleep, and dreamed of earlier days, and of the times when he first

rode forth to the great wars of Welleran, and of the time when Welleran

first spake to him, and of the faces of Welleran’s comrades when they

led charges in the battle. And ever as he awoke a great longing arose

in his soul as it hovered on his body’s brink, a longing to lie among

the bones of the old heroes. At last when he saw the dark ravine making

a scar across the plain, the soul of Iraine slipped out through his

great wound and spread its wings, and pain departed from the poor

hacked body, and, still urging his horse forward, Iraine died. But the

old true horse cantered on till suddenly he saw before him the dark

ravine and put his forefeet out on the very edge of it and stopped.

Then the body of Iraine came toppling forward over the right shoulder

of the horse, and his bones mingle and rest as the years go by with the

bones of Merimna’s heroes.

Now there was a little boy in Merimna named Rold. I saw him first,

I, the dreamer, that sit before my fire asleep, I saw him first as

his mother led him through the great hall where stand the trophies of

Merimna’s heroes. He was five years old, and they stood before the

great glass casket wherein lay the sword of Welleran, and his mother

said: ‘The sword of Welleran.’ And Rold said: ‘What should a man do

with the sword of Welleran?’ And his mother answered: ‘Men look at the

sword and remember Welleran.’ And they went on and stood before the

great red cloak of Welleran, and the child said: ‘Why did Welleran wear

this great red cloak?’ And his mother answered: ‘It was the way of

Welleran.’

When Rold was a little older he stole out of his mother’s house quite

in the middle of the night when all the world was still, and Merimna

asleep dreaming of Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and

young Iraine. And he went down to the ramparts to hear the purple guard

go by singing of Welleran. And the purple guard came by with lights,

all singing in the stillness, and dark shapes out in the desert turned

and fled. And Rold went back again to his mother’s house with a great

yearning towards the name of Welleran, such as men feel for very holy

things.

And in time Rold grew to know the pathway all round the ramparts, and

the six equestrian statues that were there guarding Merimna still.

These statues were not like other statues, they were so cunningly

wrought of many-coloured marbles that none might be quite sure until

very close that they were not living men. There was a horse of dappled

marble, the horse of Akanax. The horse of Rollory was of alabaster,

pure white, his armour was wrought out of a stone that shone, and his

horseman’s cloak was made of a blue stone, very precious. He looked

northwards.

But the marble horse of Welleran was pure black, and there sat Welleran

upon him looking solemnly westwards. His horse it was whose cold neck

Rold most loved to stroke, and it was Welleran whom the watchers at

sunset on the mountains the most clearly saw as they peered towards the

city. And Rold loved the red nostrils of the great black horse and his

rider’s jasper cloak.

Now beyond the Cyresians the suspicion grew that Merimna’s heroes

were dead, and a plan was devised that a man should go by night and

come close to the figures upon the ramparts and see whether they were

Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and young Iraine. And

all were agreed upon the plan, and many names were mentioned of those

who should go, and the plan matured for many years. It was during these

years that watchers clustered often at sunset upon the mountains but

came no nearer. Finally, a better plan was made, and it was decided

that two men who had been by chance condemned to death should be given

a pardon if they went down into the plain by night and discovered

whether or not Merimna’s heroes lived. At first the two prisoners dared

not go, but after a while one of them, Seejar, said to his companion,

Sajar-Ho: ‘See now, when the King’s axeman smites a man upon the neck

that man dies.’

And the other said that this was so. Then said Seejar: ‘And even though

Welleran smite a man with his sword no more befalleth him than death.’

Then Sajar-Ho thought for a while. Presently he said: ‘Yet the eye of

the King’s axeman might err at the moment of his stroke or his arm fail

him, and the eye of Welleran hath never erred nor his arm failed. It

were better to bide here.’

Then said Seejar: ‘Maybe that Welleran is dead and that some other

holds his place upon the ramparts, or even a statue of stone.’

But Sajar-Ho made answer: ‘How can Welleran be dead when he even

escaped from two score horsemen with swords that were sworn to slay

him, and all sworn upon our country’s gods?’

And Seejar said: ‘This story his father told my grandfather concerning

Welleran. On the day that the fight was lost on the plains of Kurlistan

he saw a dying horse near to the river, and the horse looked piteously

towards the water but could not reach it. And the father of my

grandfather saw Welleran go down to the river’s brink and bring water

from it with his own hand and give it to the horse. Now we are in as

sore a plight as was that horse, and as near to death; it may be that

Welleran will pity us, while the King’s axeman cannot because of the

commands of the King.’

Then said Sajar-Ho: ‘Thou wast ever a cunning arguer. Thou broughtest

us into this trouble with thy cunning and thy devices, we will see if

thou canst bring us out of it. We will go.’

So news was brought to the King that the two prisoners would go down to

Merimna.

That evening the watchers led them to the mountain’s edge, and Seejar

and Sajar-Ho went down towards the plain by the way of a deep ravine,

and the watchers watched them go. Presently their figures were wholly

hid in the dusk. Then night came up, huge and holy, out of waste

marshes to the eastwards and low lands and the sea; and the angels

that watched over all men through the day closed their great eyes and

slept, and the angels that watched over all men through the night awoke

and ruffled their deep blue feathers and stood up and watched. But the

plain became a thing of mystery filled with fears. So the two spies

went down the deep ravine, and coming to the plain sped stealthily

across it. Soon they came to the line of sentinels asleep upon the

sand, and one stirred in his sleep calling on Rollory, and a great

dread seized upon the spies and they whispered ‘Rollory lives,’ but

they remembered the King’s axeman and went on. And next they came to

the great bronze statue of Fear, carved by some sculptor of the old

glorious years in the attitude of flight towards the mountains, calling

to her children as she fled. And the children of Fear were carved in

the likeness of the armies of all the trans-Cyresian tribes with their

backs towards Merimna, flocking after Fear. And from where he sat on

his horse behind the ramparts the sword of Welleran was stretched out

over their heads as ever it was wont. And the two spies kneeled down in

the sand and kissed the huge bronze foot of the statue of Fear, saying:

‘O Fear, Fear.’ And as they knelt they saw lights far off along the

ramparts coming nearer and nearer, and heard men singing of Welleran.

And the purple guard came nearer and went by with their lights, and

passed on into the distance round the ramparts still singing of

Welleran. And all the while the two spies clung to the foot of the

statue, muttering: ‘O Fear, Fear.’ But when they could hear the name of

Welleran no more they arose and came to the ramparts and climbed over

them and came at once upon the figure of Welleran, and they bowed low

to the ground, and Seejar said: ‘O Welleran, we came to see whether

thou didst yet live.’ And for a long while they waited with their faces

to the earth. At last Seejar looked up towards Welleran’s terrible

sword, and it was still stretched out pointing to the carved armies

that followed after Fear. And Seejar bowed to the ground again and

touched the horse’s hoof, and it seemed cold to him. And he moved his

hand higher and touched the leg of the horse, and it seemed quite cold.

At last he touched Welleran’s foot, and the armour on it seemed hard

and stiff. Then as Welleran moved not and spake not, Seejar climbed up

at last and touched his hand, the terrible hand of Welleran, and it

was marble. Then Seejar laughed aloud, and he and Sajar-Ho sped down

the empty pathway and found Rollory, and he was marble too. Then they

climbed down over the ramparts and went back across the plain, walking

contemptuously past the figure of Fear, and heard the guard returning

round the ramparts for the third time, singing of Welleran; and Seejar

said: ‘Ay, you may sing of Welleran, but Welleran is dead and a doom is

on your city.’

And they passed on and found the sentinel still restless in the night

and calling on Rollory. And Sajar-Ho muttered: ‘Ay, you may call on

Rollory, but Rollory is dead and naught can save your city.’

And the two spies went back alive to their mountains again, and as

they reached them the first ray of the sun came up red over the desert

behind Merimna and lit Merimna’s spires. It was the hour when the

purple guard were wont to go back into the city with their tapers

pale and their robes a brighter colour, when the cold sentinels came

shuffling in from dreaming in the desert; it was the hour when the

desert robbers hid themselves away, going back to their mountain caves;

it was the hour when gauze-winged insects are born that only live for

a day; it was the hour when men die that are condemned to death; and

in this hour a great peril, new and terrible, arose for Merimna and

Merimna knew it not.

Then Seejar turning said: ‘See how red the dawn is and how red the

spires of Merimna. They are angry with Merimna in Paradise and they

bode its doom.’

So the two spies went back and brought the news to their King, and for

a few days the Kings of those countries were gathering their armies

together; and one evening the armies of four Kings were massed together

at the top of the deep ravine, all crouching below the summit waiting

for the sun to set. All wore resolute and fearless faces, yet inwardly

every man was praying to his gods, unto each one in turn.

Then the sun set, and it was the hour when the bats and the dark

creatures are abroad and the lions come down from their lairs, and the

desert robbers go into the plains again, and fevers rise up winged and

hot out of chill marshes, and it was the hour when safety leaves the

thrones of Kings, the hour when dynasties change. But in the desert the

purple guard came swinging out of Merimna with their lights to sing of

Welleran, and the sentinels lay down to sleep.

Now into Paradise no sorrow may ever come, but may only beat like rain

against its crystal walls, yet the souls of Merimna’s heroes were

half aware of some sorrow far away as some sleeper feels that some

one is chilled and cold yet knows not in his sleep that it is he. And

they fretted a little in their starry home. Then unseen there drifted

earthward across the setting sun the souls of Welleran, Soorenard,

Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and young Iraine. Already when they reached

Merimna’s ramparts it was just dark, already the armies of the four

Kings had begun to move, jingling, down the deep ravine. But when the

six warriors saw their city again, so little changed after so many

years, they looked towards her with a longing that was nearer to tears

than any that their souls had known before, crying to her:

‘O Merimna, our city: Merimna, our walled city.

‘How beautiful thou art with all thy spires, Merimna. For thee we left

the earth, its kingdoms and little flowers, for thee we have come away

for awhile from Paradise.

‘It is very difficult to draw away from the face of God—it is like a

warm fire, it is like dear sleep, it is like a great anthem, yet there

is a stillness all about it, a stillness full of lights.

‘We have left Paradise for awhile for thee, Merimna.

‘Many women have we loved, Merimna, but only one city.

‘Behold now all the people dream, all our loved people. How beautiful

are dreams! In dreams the dead may live, even the long dead and the

very silent. Thy lights are all sunk low, they have all gone out, no

sound is in thy streets. Hush! Thou art like a maiden that shutteth up

her eyes and is asleep, that draweth her breath softly and is quite

still, being at ease and untroubled.

‘Behold now the battlements, the old battlements. Do men defend them

still as we defended them? They are worn a little, the battlements,’

and drifting nearer they peered anxiously. ‘It is not by the hand of

man that they are worn, our battlements. Only the years have done it

and indomitable Time. Thy battlements are like the girdle of a maiden,

a girdle that is round about her. See now the dew upon them, they are

like a jewelled girdle.

‘Thou art in great danger, Merimna, because thou art so beautiful. Must

thou perish tonight because we no more defend thee, because we cry out

and none hear us, as the bruised lilies cry out and none have known

their voices?’

Thus spake those strong-voiced, battle-ordering captains, calling to

their dear city, and their voices came no louder than the whispers of

little bats that drift across the twilight in the evening. Then the

purple guard came near, going round the ramparts for the first time in

the night, and the old warriors called to them, ‘Merimna is in danger!

Already her enemies gather in the darkness.’ But their voices were

never heard because they were only wandering ghosts. And the guard went

by and passed unheeding away, still singing of Welleran.

Then said Welleran to his comrades: ‘Our hands can hold swords no more,

our voices cannot be heard, we are stalwart men no longer. We are but

dreams, let us go among dreams. Go all of you, and thou too, young

Iraine, and trouble the dreams of all the men that sleep, and urge them

to take the old swords of their grandsires that hang upon the walls,

and to gather at the mouth of the ravine; and I will find a leader and

make him take my sword.’

Then they passed up over the ramparts and into their dear city. And the

wind blew about, this way and that, as he went, the soul of Welleran

who had upon his day withstood the charges of tempestuous armies. And

the souls of his comrades, and with them young Iraine, passed up into

the city and troubled the dreams of every man who slept, and to every

man the souls said in their dreams: ‘It is hot and still in the city.

Go out now into the desert, into the cool under the mountains, but take

with thee the old sword that hangs upon the wall for fear of the desert

robbers.’

And the god of that city sent up a fever over it, and the fever brooded

over it and the streets were hot; and all that slept awoke from

dreaming that it would be cool and pleasant where the breezes came

down the ravine out of the mountains; and they took the old swords

that their grandsires had, according to their dreams, for fear of the

desert robbers. And in and out of dreams passed the souls of Welleran’s

comrades, and with them young Iraine, in great haste as the night wore

on; and one by one they troubled the dreams of all Merimna’s men and

caused them to arise and go out armed, all save the purple guard who,

heedless of danger, sang of Welleran still, for waking men cannot hear

the souls of the dead.

But Welleran drifted over the roofs of the city till he came to the

form of Rold lying fast asleep. Now Rold was grown strong and was

eighteen years of age, and he was fair of hair and tall like Welleran,

and the soul of Welleran hovered over him and went into his dreams as a

butterfly flits through trellis-work into a garden of flowers, and the

soul of Welleran said to Rold in his dreams: ‘Thou wouldst go and see

again the sword of Welleran, the great curved sword of Welleran. Thou

wouldst go and look at it in the night with the moonlight shining upon

it.’

And the longing of Rold in his dreams to see the sword caused him to

walk still sleeping from his mother’s house to the hall wherein were

the trophies of the heroes. And the soul of Welleran urging the dreams

of Rold caused him to pause before the great red cloak, and there the

soul said among the dreams: ‘Thou art cold in the night; fling now a

cloak around thee.’

And Rold drew round about him the huge red cloak of Welleran. Then

Rold’s dreams took him to the sword, and the soul said to the dreams:

‘Thou hast a longing to hold the sword of Welleran: take up the sword

in thy hand.’

But Rold said: ‘What should a man do with the sword of Welleran?’

And the soul of the old captain said to the dreams: ‘It is a good sword

to hold: take up the sword of Welleran.’

And Rold, still sleeping and speaking aloud, said: ‘It is not lawful;

none may touch the sword.’

And Rold turned to go. Then a great and terrible cry arose in the soul

of Welleran, all the more bitter for that he could not utter it, and it

went round and round his soul finding no utterance, like a cry evoked

long since by some murderous deed in some old haunted chamber that

whispers through the ages heard by none.

And the soul of Welleran cried out to the dreams of Rold: ‘Thy knees

are tied! Thou art fallen in a marsh! Thou canst not move.’

And the dreams of Rold said to him: ‘Thy knees are tied, thou art

fallen in a marsh,’ and Rold stood still before the sword. Then the

soul of the warrior wailed among Rold’s dreams, as Rold stood before

the sword.

‘Welleran is crying for his sword, his wonderful curved sword. Poor

Welleran, that once fought for Merimna, is crying for his sword in

the night. Thou wouldst not keep Welleran without his beautiful sword

when he is dead and cannot come for it, poor Welleran who fought for

Merimna.’

And Rold broke the glass casket with his hand and took the sword, the

great curved sword of Welleran; and the soul of the warrior said among

Rold’s dreams: ‘Welleran is waiting in the deep ravine that runs into

the mountains, crying for his sword.’

And Rold went down through the city and climbed over the ramparts, and

walked with his eyes wide open but still sleeping over the desert to

the mountains.

Already a great multitude of Merimna’s citizens were gathered in the

desert before the deep ravine with old swords in their hands, and Rold

passed through them as he slept holding the sword of Welleran, and the

people cried in amaze to one another as he passed: ‘Rold hath the sword

of Welleran!’

And Rold came to the mouth of the ravine, and there the voices of the

people woke him. And Rold knew nothing that he had done in his sleep,

and looked in amazement at the sword in his hand and said: ‘What art

thou, thou beautiful thing? Lights shimmer in thee, thou art restless.

It is the sword of Welleran, the curved sword of Welleran!’

And Rold kissed the hilt of it, and it was salt upon his lips with the

battle-sweat of Welleran. And Rold said: ‘What should a man do with the

sword of Welleran?’

And all the people wondered at Rold as he sat there with the sword in

his hand muttering, ‘What should a man do with the sword of Welleran?’

Presently there came to the ears of Rold the noise of a jingling up in

the ravine, and all the people, the people that knew naught of war,

heard the jingling coming nearer in the night; for the four armies were

moving on Merimna and not yet expecting an enemy. And Rold gripped

upon the hilt of the great curved sword, and the sword seemed to lift

a little. And a new thought came into the hearts of Merimna’s people

as they gripped their grandsires’ swords. Nearer and nearer came the

heedless armies of the four Kings, and old ancestral memories began

to arise in the minds of Merimna’s people in the desert with their

swords in their hands sitting behind Rold. And all the sentinels were

awake holding their spears, for Rollory had put their dreams to flight,

Rollory that once could put to flight armies and now was but a dream

struggling with other dreams.

And now the armies had come very near. Suddenly Rold leaped up, crying:

‘Welleran! And the sword of Welleran!’ And the savage, lusting sword

that had thirsted for a hundred years went up with the hand of Rold and

swept through a tribesman’s ribs. And with the warm blood all about it

there came a joy into the curved soul of that mighty sword, like to

the joy of a swimmer coming up dripping out of warm seas after living

for long in a dry land. When they saw the red cloak and that terrible

sword a cry ran through the tribal armies, ‘Welleran lives!’ And there

arose the sounds of the exulting of victorious men, and the panting of

those that fled, and the sword singing softly to itself as it whirled

dripping through the air. And the last that I saw of the battle as

it poured into the depth and darkness of the ravine was the sword

of Welleran sweeping up and falling, gleaming blue in the moonlight

whenever it arose and afterwards gleaming red, and so disappearing into

the darkness.

But in the dawn Merimna’s men came back, and the sun arising to give

new life to the world, shone instead upon the hideous things that

the sword of Welleran had done. And Rold said: ‘O sword, sword! How

horrible thou art! Thou art a terrible thing to have come among men.

How many eyes shall look upon gardens no more because of thee? How

many fields must go empty that might have been fair with cottages,

white cottages with children all about them? How many valleys must go

desolate that might have nursed warm hamlets, because thou hast slain

long since the men that might have built them? I hear the wind crying

against thee, thou sword! It comes from the empty valleys. It comes

over the bare fields. There are children’s voices in it. They were

never born. Death brings an end to crying for those that had life once,

but these must cry for ever. O sword! sword! why did the gods send thee

among men?’ And the tears of Rold fell down upon the proud sword but

could not wash it clean.

And now that the ardour of battle had passed away, the spirits of

Merimna’s people began to gloom a little, like their leader’s, with

their fatigue and with the cold of the morning; and they looked at the

sword of Welleran in Rold’s hand and said: ‘Not any more, not any more

for ever will Welleran now return, for his sword is in the hand of

another. Now we know indeed that he is dead. O Welleran, thou wast our

sun and moon and all our stars. Now is the sun fallen down and the moon

broken, and all the stars are scattered as the diamonds of a necklace

that is snapped off one who is slain by violence.’

Thus wept the people of Merimna in the hour of their great victory,

for men have strange moods, while beside them their old inviolate city

slumbered safe. But back from the ramparts and beyond the mountains

and over the lands that they had conquered of old, beyond the world

and back again to Paradise, went the souls of Welleran, Soorenard,

Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and young Iraine.