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He pointed to the gulf so near.
All terrified upon their knees they fell.
“Oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell,”
Said Sigismond. “But, phantom! do us tell
What thou wouldst have from us–we will obey.
Oh, mercy!–’tis for mercy now we pray.”
“Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!”
And no old crone in feebler voice could plead
Than Ladislaeus did.

But not a word
Said now the figure motionless, with sword
In hand. This sovereign soul seemed to commune
With self beneath his metal sheath; yet soon
And suddenly, with tranquil voice said he,
“Princes, your craven spirit wearies me.
No phantom–only man am I. Arise!
I like not to be dreaded otherwise
Than with the fear to which I’m used; know me,
For it is Eviradnus that you see!”

XVII.

THE CLUB.

As from the mist a noble pine we tell
Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel,
When morning freshness breathes round all the wood,
So Eviradnus now before them stood,
Opening his visor, which at once revealed
The snowy beard it had so well concealed.
Thin Sigismond was still as dog at gaze,
But Ladislaeus leaped, and howl did raise,
And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud
That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed.
“‘Tis but an old man after all!” he cried.

Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied,
“Oh, kings! an old man of my time can cope
With two much younger ones of yours, I hope.
To mortal combat I defy you both
Singly; or, if you will, I’m nothing loth
With two together to contend; choose here
From out the heap what weapon shall appear
Most fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see,
I will take off my own, for all must be
In order perfect–e’en your punishment.”

Then Eviradnus, true to his intent,
Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the while
He calmly had disarmed–with dexterous guile
Had Ladislaeus seized a knife that lay
Upon the damask cloth, and slipped away
His shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silently
He crept behind the knight, with arm held high.
But Eviradnus was of all aware,
And turned upon the murderous weapon there,
And twisted it away; then in a trice
His strong colossal hand grasped like a vice
The neck of Ladislaeus, who the blade
Now dropped; over his eyes a misty shade
Showed that the royal dwarf was near to death.

“Traitor!” said Eviradnus in his wrath,
“I rather should have hewn your limbs away,
And left you crawling on your stumps, I say,–
But now die fast.”

Ghastly, with starting eyes,
The King without a cry or struggle dies.
One dead–but lo! the other stands bold-faced,
Defiant; for the knight, when he unlaced
His cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down,
And Sigismond now grasps it as his own.
The monster-youth laughed at the silv’ry beard,
And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared.
Crossing his arms, he cried, “‘Tis my turn now!”
And the black mounted knights in solemn row
Were judges of the strife. Before them lay
The sleeping Mahaud–and not far away
The fatal pit, near which the champion knight
With evil Emperor must contend for right,
Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pit
Expectant which should be engulfed in it.

“Now we shall see for whom this ready grave,”
Said Sigismond, “you dog, whom naught can save!”
Aware was Eviradnus that if he
Turned for a blade unto the armory,
He would be instant pierced–what can he do?
The moment is for him supreme. But, lo!
He glances now at Ladislaeus dead,
And with a smile triumphant and yet dread,
And air of lion caged to whom is shown
Some loophole of escape, he bends him down.