But by the will that knows no law
I wrenched my right hand free,
And I drove my mandauw’s gleaming point
A hand’s-breadth in his knee.
Stung by the pain he loosened,
And a moment bared his breast,
And like the dash of the lightning flash
My weapon sought its rest.
As a log in the Moeroeng rapids
The mighty chieftain rolled,
And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke,
In the reek of the blood-stained mold.
And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke—
But the glare of the dying eyes
Gleamed forth to show the worthy foe
And the heart that never dies.
. . . . . . . . . .
A moment toward a kampong,
And toward a kampong maid,
I looked ... and a head rolled helpless
To the crash of a falling blade.
IV
With strips from my torn jacket
I bound my arm and thigh,
And I headed back o’er the leafy track
With hope and spirits high.
And as I sped with leaping heart
All Nature seemed to sing;
And my legs ran red where trickling bled
The head of the Jungle King.
The purring tree-tops called me—
The fleecy clouds rolled by—
And the forest green was a sun-shot sheen,
And the sky was a laughing sky.
And only night could halt me,
And the stars in their proud parade,
They bade me look to the path before
That led to the kampong maid.
Bleeding and torn, spent and worn,
At last I reached the hill,
Whence each hearth-light in the falling night
Was a welcome bright and still.