Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,
Clad in his sombre mail.
“Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,
And why art thou so pale?”
“A beast I’ve slain.” “Thou liest, hound!
But I a beast will slay.”
The woodland’s leafy ways resound
To echoings of fray.
Roger is slain. Trogoff’s château
Is level with the rock.