There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee
In their pale faces, when they glared at me:
Still they did force me on the oar to rest,
And when they saw me fainting and oppress’d,
He with his hand, the old man, scoop’d the flood,
And there came flame about him mix’d with blood;
He bade me stoop and look upon the place,
Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;
Burning it blazed, and then I roar’d for pain,
I thought the demons would have turn’d my brain.