And the pine branches crash’d before the flying.
And all was changed within the still retreat,
Costanza’s home: there enter’d hurrying feet,
Dark looks of shame and sorrow—mail-clad men,
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored
The sweet saint’s prayers to heal him: then for flight,