Stood, their feet in the heather, like smiths worn out with toil,
Red like the arbute-berry in the ruddy gloaming,
Contemplating through the branches the scarlet sky from which comes life.
—As for him,
Those who stood by his stirrups, taking his orders,
Listening with parted lips to what he said, for the first time saw on his face,
Like that of a man who, in the midst of a crowd, mocks at an absurd misfortune,
The inconstant smile of a young girl!
All: Triumph! Triumph!
The Messenger: Now let these eyes which have seen such a spectacle