The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit, and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle bars like a maiden plays with her love.
There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick, though never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn—
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woeful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive—