“And hurled them o’er a poplar-tree hard by?
Well for you, urchin, there’s no poplar nigh!
You couldn’t lead a stray ass whence it came!”
But Vincen stood like pointer to the game.
“I say,” he roared in tones stentorian,
“Will you come down, or must I fetch you, man
“Or hog? Come! Brag no more your beast astride
You flinch now we are going to decide
Which sucked the better milk, or you or I?
Was it you, bearded scoundrel? We will try!
Why, I will tread you like a sheaf of wheat,
If you dare flout yon maiden true and sweet.
“No fairer flower in this land blossomed ever;
And I who am called Vincen, basket-weaver,
Yes, I—her suitor, be it understood—
Will wash your slanders out in your own blood,
If such you have!” Quoth Ourrias, “I am ready,
My gypsy-suitor to a cupboard! Steady!”
Therewith alights. They fling their coats away,
Fists fly, and pebbles roll before the fray.
They fall upon each other in the manner
Of two young bulls who, in the vast savannah,
Where the great sun glares in the tropic sky,
The sleek sides of a dark young heifer spy
In the tall grasses, lowing amorous.
The thunder bursts within them, challenged thus.
Mad, blind with love, they paw, they stare, they spring;
And furious charge, their muzzles lowering;
Retire, and charge again. The ominous sound
Of crashing horns fills all the spaces round.
And long, I ween, the battle is, and dire.
The combatants are maddened by desire.
Puissant Love urges and goads them on.
So here, with either doughty champion.
’Twas Ourrias who received the first hard touch;
And, being threatened with another such,
Lifts his huge fist and lays young Vincen flat
As with a club. “There, urchin, parry that!”
“See if I have a scratch, man!” cried the lad.
The other, “Bastard, count the knocks you’ve had!”
“Count you the ounces of hot blood,” he shouted,
“Monster, that from your flattened nose have spouted!”
And then they grapple; bend and stretch their best,
With foot to foot, shoulder to shoulder, prest.
Their arms are wreathed and coiled like serpents fell
The veins within their necks to bursting swell
And tense their muscles with the mighty strain.
Long time they stiff and motionless remain,
With pulsing flanks, like flap of bustard’s wing.
And, one against the other steadying,
Bear up like the abutments huge and wide
Of that great bridge the Gardoun doth bestride.
Anon they part: their doubled fists upraise,
Once more the pestle in the mortar brays,
And in their fury ply they tooth or nail.
Good God! the blows of Vincen fall like hail.
Yet ah! what club-like hits the herdsman deals!
And, as their crushing weight the weaver feels,
He whirls as whirls a sling about his foe,
And backward bends to deal his fiercest blow.