d in alien seasons, moved beneath a golden sky,
In a golden clime where never came the strife of men that die.

But the Gods themselves were jealous, for our bliss was over great,
And they brought on us division, and the horror of their Hate,
And they set the Snake between us, and the twining coils of Fate.

And they said, "Go forth and seek each other's face, and only find
Shadows of that face ye long for, dreams of days left far behind,
Love the shadows and be loved with loves that waver as the wind."

Once more the sweet singing died away, but as the Wanderer grasped his
sword and fixed the broad shield upon his arm he remembered the dream
of Meriamun the Queen, which had been told him by Rei the Priest. For in
that dream twain who had sinned were made three, and through many deaths
and lives must seek each other's face. And now it seemed that the burden
of the song was the burden of the dream.

Then he thought no more on dreams, or songs, or omens, but only on the
deadly foe that stood before him wrapped in darkness, and on Helen, in
whose arms he yet should lie, for so the Goddess had sworn to him in
sea-girt Ithaca. He spoke no word, he named no God, but sprang forward
as a lion springs from his bed of reeds; and, lo! his buckler clashed
against shields that barred the way, and invisible arms seized him to
hurl him back. But no weakling was the Wanderer, thus to be pushed aside
by magic, but the stoutest man left alive in the whole world now that
Aias, Telamon's son, was dead. The priests wondered as they saw how he
gave back never a step, for all the might of the Wardens of the Gate,
but lifted his short sword and hewed down so terribly that fire leapt
from the air where the short sword fell, the good short sword of
Euryalus the Phaeacian. Then came the clashing of the swords, and from
all the golden armour that once the god-like Paris wore, ay, from
buckler, helm, and greaves, and breastplate the sparks streamed up as
they stream from the anvil of the smith when he smites great blows on
swords made white with fire.

Swift as hail fell the blows of the unseen blades upon the golden
armour, but he who wore it took no harm, nor was it so much as marked
with the dint of the swords. So while the priests wondered at this
miracle the viewless Wardens of the Gate smote at the Wanderer, and the
Wanderer smote at them again. Then of a sudden he knew this, that they
who barred the pat