'From shore to mountain, dawn to night,
The kinsfolk of this great dead knight
Will chase thee to thy death.' A light
Of swift blithe scorn flashed answer bright
⁠As fire from Balen's eye. 'For that,
Small fear shall fret my heart,' quoth he:
'But that my lord the king should be
For this dead man's sake wroth with me,
⁠Weep might it well thereat.'

Then murmuring passed the dwarf away,
And toward the knights in fair array
Came riding eastward up the way
From where the flower-soft lowlands lay
⁠A king whose name the sweet south-west
Held high in honour, and the land
That bowed beneath his gentle hand
Wore on its wild bright northern strand
⁠Tintagel for a crest.