Like some wild torrent that the hills have loosed,
Death for its goal.—'Twas late; and none had yet
Risked that hard shot,—too desperate the risk
Beside the poor life and a little gold,—
When this young Kuno, with hot eyes, wherein
Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,
Cried, "Has the dew made wet each powder-pan?
Or have we left our marksmanship at home?
Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"—
And fired into a covert packed with briers,