Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;
Each roofless hut[131] was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,
Each path was foul[132] with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.
We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,
And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,
The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,
But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.
We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;
His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133] and wrenched away;
They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,