A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad
Of black Orion
Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.
“General, you’re hurt—this sleet of balls!”
He seemed half spent;
With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:
“The field to die on;
But not—not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon.
For a time becharmed there fell a lull
In the heart of the fight;