At the last was he come, a hero of wondrous-mighty frame;
With lances twain that quivered in his iron grasp he came.
And twofold vesture arrayed him; the garb of the Magnete folk
To his goodly limbs close-lapping clung; but tossed like a cloak
O’er his shoulders a pard’s fell screening from arrowy showers lay.
From the glory of his bright tresses nought had been shorn away,
But unminished, a rippling splendour, adown his back they shone.
With feet unfaltering straightway and swiftly strode he on,
And he stood, as one that proveth a spirit of peril uncowed,
In the midst of the place of folkmote filled with its thronging crowd.