And from the sheltered valley. Still he came not.
She turned to seek her home—when at her side
A figure stood, panting with breathless haste.
’Twas he, the dark browed youth. His eye was wild,
Blood on his forehead—and his reeking weapon
Of the same crimson hue. She shrunk aghast,
For her fears told what blood had dyed that blade.
With unresisted might he bore her thence,
Fleet as the eagle, to the dusky shore.
Ere she had power to shriek—to strive—to pray—