XII.

    Nor was it I alone, to whom Those words had been as words of doom, By some malicious fiend rehearsed： Another one was standing by, With princely port, and piercing eye, Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume； I thought his heaving heart would burst, His labouring bosom's heave and swell, So strongly, quickly, rose and fell！

    A long, bright blade hung at his side, Its keen and glittering edge he tried； He bore a bow, and this he drew, To see if still its spring were true； But other sign could none be caught, Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. And then with firm and haughty stride, He turned away, and left my side；

    I watched him, as with rapid tread, Along the river's marge he sped, Till the still twilight's gathering gloom Hid haughty form, and waving plume.