Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,—­
  Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
  I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
  Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
  Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
  Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

  ’T was a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
  Lokerem, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
  At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
  At Duffeld ’t was morning as plain as could be;
  And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,—­
  So Joris broke silence with “Yet there is time!”
  At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
  And against him the cattle stood black every one. 
  To stare through the midst at us galloping past;
  And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
  With resolute shoulders, each butting away
  The haze, as some blind river headland its spray;
  And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
  For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
  And one eye’s black intelligence,—­ever that glance
  O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
  And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
  His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

  By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur! 
  Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her;
  We’ll remember at Aix,”—­for one heard the quick wheeze
  Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
  And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
  As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

  So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
  Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
  The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
  ’Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
  Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
  And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”

  “How they’ll greet us!”—­and all in a moment his roan
  Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
  And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
  Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
  With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
  And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

[Illustration:  I CAST LOOSE MY BUFF-COAT]

  Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
  Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
  Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
  Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer,—­
  Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, an noise, bad or good,
  Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

  And all I remember is friends flocking round. 
  As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;
  And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
  As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
  Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
  Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.