But the rider rode with revenge in his teeth.
Another league, and I touch the goal,—
The mystic rune on the poplar bole,—
When the dusky eyes and the raven hair
And the lithe brown arms shall greet me there.
I ran like a harrier on the trace
In the leash of that ghoul, and the wind gave chase.
A furlong now; I caught the gleam
Of the bubbling well with its tiny stream;