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.