XIV

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
        With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, 80
        And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
        He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 
        As a man calls for wine before he fights,
        I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 
Think first, fight afterwards—­the soldier’s art: 
        One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 90

XVI

Not it!  I fancied Cuthbert’s reddening face
        Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
        Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used.  Alas, one night’s disgrace! 
        Out went my heart’s new fire and left it cold.

XVII

Giles then, the soul of honour—­there he stands
        Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. 
        What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. 
Good-=but the scene shifts—­faugh! what hangman hands 100
Pin to his breast a parchment?  His own bands
        Read it.  Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

XVIII

Better this present than a past like that;
        Back therefore to my darkening path again! 
        No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. 
Will the night send a howlet or a bat? 
I asked:  when something on the dismal flat
        Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

XIX

A sudden little river crossed my path
        As unexpected as a serpent comes. 110
        No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend’s glowing hoof—­to see the wrath
        Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

XX

So petty yet so spiteful!  All along,
        Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it
        Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: 
The river which had done them all the wrong,
        Whate’er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. 120

XXI

Which, while I forded,—­good saints, how I feared
        To set my foot upon a dead man’s cheek,
        Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! 
—­It may have been a water-rat I speared,
        But, ugh! it sounded like a baby’s shriek.