AtLast_[07]

Archangel Michael's missive Closed, Accumbent I was lifted By his sword of flame Upon my shoulder. "Gavin, you are called." But God! I disowned all that For the bad Or for the better! Writ In haste Was Martin's letter. "Gavin, you are called."

Cousin Martin's letter charged,

Nagging wounds once claimed as healed, Vicious packs of wolves at large Running through our fields. Angel feather sword in hand, Returned, in haste, to my own land. Instinct in my other axe, Cousin Martin pulled me back. "My CuChulainn! Temperament sullen, Waive that tempered blade. We despair of equal force In you, my hopes, a wooden horse!

Your bid was Homer bade. Erect, as lures, in muse's art