And the soul replied, that was swart and red,
“The spirit of him who shot you dead
By the blockhouse on the hill.
“Your men and you on the crest were first,
And the last foe left was I;
In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed,
Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst
And the hot charge panted nigh.
“You saw me writhe at the side of the trench:
You bade—I know not what: