Cumbered with horrible fears,
Leaped he the perilous ledges
Reaching the village that lay in the valley, untroubled and still.
Midway of his sickening haste,
Sudden he faltered and moaned,
Seeing three stand by a window, as the breeze loitering blew;
A woman sad-featured and patient,
Two golden heads at her shoulder,
Dear eyes he made shine once—dear childish hair that he knew!
Not yet, for surely the bloodhounds