Why, flame could hardly be more hot;
Yet on the mad pursuer came,
Across the gleaming yielding ground,
Right on, as if he fed on flame,
Right on until the mid-day found
The man within a pistol-shot.
He hail'd, but Morgan answer'd not,
He hail'd, then came a feeble shot,
And strangely, in that vastness there,
It seem'd to scarcely fret the air,