He mounts on his
head the tall tufts of plumes; he girds the thin sword to his side; and
I saw in my dream that the people began to fall back before him, and
bow as he drew near.
But I saw that the steed of the desert refused to recognize his master
when he entered the courtyard of the Palace. In vain he pats, with his
own hand, the wavy silken mane: no neigh of joy now answers his caress;
he strives to leap upon him as in the morning of this eventful day, but
the haughty charger rears, stands erect upon his hind legs, and refuses
to be mounted. Enraged beyond control, he thrusts his long sword into
the glossy flanks. The startled animal breaks away, spurns the
blood-sprinkled soil, and flies thundering afar, rattling and clashing
his iron hoofs on the pavement, marking his track with a long line of
glittering sparks, flashing but to die in the dying light of evening!
The hour of twilight is already on the earth!
* * * * *
Again, for the third time in that day of life, met the Wanderer and his
friend. They stood together in a Church, which was without the gates,
and the cross on its towers was different from those on the Basilicas
within the walls of the city. The altar was without adornment, and, as
well as the walls and ceilings, was shrouded in the deepest mourning.
Three tapers only were upon it, and they struggled vainly with the
surrounding gloom.
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