Chapter_217

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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.