Ellyat huddled closer under the tree, Remembering what he could. He had run for years, He had slept for years⁠—and yet it was still not dawn. It seemed cruel to him that it should never be dawn. It seemed cruel that Bailey was lost. He had meant to show Some fictive heroisms in front of Bailey. He had not. Bailey had saved his skin instead, And Bailey was lost. And in him something was lost, Something worse than defeat or this rain⁠—some piece of himself, Some piece of courage. Now the slant rain began To creep through his sodden heart. He thought, with wild awe, “This is Nibelung Hall. I am lying in Nibelung Hall. I am long dead. I fell there out of the sky In a wreck of horses, spilling the ball of the sun, And they shut my eyes with stone runes and put me to sleep On a bier where the living stream perpetually flows Past Ygdrasil and waters the roots of the world. I can hear the ravens scream from the cloudy roof. I can hear the bubbles rising in the clear stream.