hanging to thee, my lord, upon a windy day!’
And of all the flying things he met in his going, one only dared to put pain upon him, and she was a honey-bee who stabbed his cheek with her sword.
‘Would I could slay thee,’ she cried, ‘ere thou rob the hive of its honey!’
And of all the creeping things that passed him on his way only one tried to stay him; she was the bramble who cast her thorn across his path so his steed well-nigh stumbled.
‘Would I could make thee fall, Black Earl, who now art so high, ere thou rob fruit from the branch!’
Only one living thing upon the mountains saw him go without mourning, and he was the red weasel who took the world as he found it.
‘Tears will not heal a wound,’ saith he, ‘but they will quench a fire. Thy hive is in danger, bee,’ quoth he. ‘Bramble, thy flowers are scattered and thy fruit lost.’
