Of day flowed down the white vale of a dream
And left it disenchanted in the glare.
Then, warmed and soothed, Hugh rose and feasted there,
And thought once more of reaching the Moreau.
To southward with a painful pace and slow
He went stiff-jointed; and a gnawing ache
In that hip-wound he had for Jamie’s sake
Oft made him groan—nor wrought a tender mood:
The rankling weapon of ingratitude
Was turned again with every puckering twinge.