Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odour of powder
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest.
Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort;
He who was used to success, and to easy victories always,
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted!
Ah! ’twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armour!
“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly.
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and grey in the harness,
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens?