In drifts of dust and, lo! the Khalif's troops
Around them rode.—As when a merlin stoops
Some stranger quarry, prey that swims the wind,
Heron or eagle; kenning not its kind
There, whence 'tis cast, until it, towering, feels
An eagle's tearing talons, and still deals
Blow upon blow, though hopeless;—so the youth,—
An Arab, fearless as the face of Truth,
Of all that made him certain of his death,—
Waited with eyes indifferent, equal breath.