“Look your last, villain!” Ere the word said he,
The mighty herdsman seized him bodily,
And flung him o’er his shoulder far away,
As a Provençal shovels wheat. He lay
A moment on his side, not sorely hurt.
“Pick up, O worm!” cried Ourrias,—“pick the dirt
“You have displaced, and eat it, if you will!”
“Enough of that! Brute who was broken ill,
We’ll have three rounds before this game is over!”
With bitter hate retorts the poor boy-lover;
And, reddening to his very hair for shame,
Rears like a dragon to retrieve his fame.
And, daring death, he on the brute hath flown,
And dealt a blow marvellous in such an one
Straight from the shoulder to the other’s breast,
Who reeled and groped for that whereon to rest,
With darkening eyes and brow cold-beaded, till
He crashed to earth, and all La Crau was still.
Its misty limit blent with the far sea;
The sea’s with the blue ether, dreamily.
Still in mid-air there floated shining things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their rosy wings,
Come to salute the last of the sunset
Along the desert meres that glimmered yet.
The white mare of the herdsman lazily
Pulled at the dwarf-oak leaves that grew thereby:
The iron stirrups of the creature jangled,
As loose and heavy at her sides they dangled.
“Stir, and I crush you, ruffian!” Vincen said:
“’Tis not by feet that men are measurèd!”
Then in the silent wold the victor pressed
His heel upon the brander’s prostrate breast,
Who writhed beneath it vainly, while the blood
Sluggish and dark from lips and nostrils flowed.
Thrice did he strive the horny foot to move,
And thrice the basket-weaver from above
Dealt him a blow that levelled him once more,
Until he haggard lay, and gasping sore
Like some sea-monster. “So your mother, then,
Was not, it seems, the only mould of men,”
Said Vincen, jeeringly. “Go tell the tale
Of my fist’s weight to bulls in Sylvarèal.
“Go to the waste of the Camargan isle,
And hide your bruises and your shame awhile
Among your beasts!” So saying, he loosed his hold,
As some great ram, a shearer in the fold
Pins with his knees till shorn; then, with a blow
Upon the crupper, bids him freely go.
Bursting with rage and all defiled with dust,
The herdsman went his ways. But wherefore must
He linger ferreting about the heath,
Amid the oaks and broom, under his breath
Muttering curses? until suddenly
He stoops, then swings his savage trident high,
And darts on Vincen. For him all is done.
Vain were the hope that murderous lance to shun,
And the boy paled as on the day he died;
Not fearing death, but that he could not bide
The treachery. A felon’s prey to be!
That stung the manly soul to agony.