Presently there came to the ears of Rold the noise of a jingling up in the ravine, and all the people, the people that knew naught of war, heard the jingling coming nearer in the night; for the four armies were moving on Merimna and not yet expecting an enemy.  And Rold gripped upon the hilt of the great curved sword, and the sword seemed to lift a little.  And a new thought came into the hearts of Merimna’s people as they gripped their grandsires’ swords.  Nearer and nearer came the heedless armies of the four Kings, and old ancestral memories began to arise in the minds of Merimna’s people in the desert with their swords in their hands sitting behind Rold.  And all the sentinels were awake holding their spears, for Rollory had put their dreams to flight, Rollory that once could put to flight armies and now was but a dream struggling with other dreams.

And now the armies had come very near.  Suddenly Rold leaped up, crying:  ‘Welleran!  And the sword of Welleran!’ And the savage, lusting sword that had thirsted for a hundred years went up with the hand of Rold and swept through a tribesman’s ribs.  And with the warm blood all about it there came a joy into the curved soul of that mighty sword, like to the joy of a swimmer coming up dripping out of warm seas after living for long in a dry land.  When they saw the red cloak and that terrible sword a cry ran through the tribal armies, ‘Welleran lives!’ And there arose the sounds of the exulting of victorious men, and the panting of those that fled, and the sword singing softly to itself as it whirled dripping through the air.  And the last that I saw of the battle as it poured into the depth and darkness of the ravine was the sword of Welleran sweeping up and falling, gleaming blue in the moonlight whenever it arose and afterwards gleaming red, and so disappearing into the darkness.

But in the dawn Merimna’s men came back, and the sun arising to give new life to the world, shone instead upon the hideous things that the sword of Welleran had done.  And Rold said:  ’O sword, sword!  How horrible thou art!  Thou art a terrible thing to have come among men.  How many eyes shall look upon gardens no more because of thee?  How many fields must go empty that might have been fair with cottages, white cottages with children all about them?  How many valleys must go desolate that might have nursed warm hamlets, because thou hast slain long since the men that might have built them?  I hear the wind crying against thee, thou sword!  It comes from the empty valleys.  It comes over the bare fields.  There are children’s voices in it.  They were never born.  Death brings an end to crying for those that had life once, but these must cry for ever.  O sword! sword! why did the gods send thee among men?’ And the tears of Rold fell down upon the proud sword but could not wash it clean.