XII.

    Nor was it I alone, to whom Those words had been as words of doom¹, By some malicious² fiend rehearsed： Another one was standing³ by, With princely port, and piercing eye, Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume⁴； I thought his heaving heart would burst, His labouring bosom's heave and swell⁵, 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 haughty⁶ 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 gathering⁷ gloom Hid haughty form, and waving plume.