XXIV.

'Now what will be let it be!' Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' And the white-witch scorns at her, Stately standing in their sight. Then without or sound or stir She is not. For offering meet Lieth the token at their feet, Which they, weary and sore bestead In the storm, lift up, full fain Ere the waning light hath fled Those high towers they left to gain.