And we also cried aloud and in frantic haste rushed forward.
Three times we charged that multitude, and in the end, yielding beneath our despair, they scattered like a flock.
And as the affrighted Hindu
Turns in his course
To watch the wounded elephant, mad with pain,
Who pursues him like a mountain across the dazzling ricefields, thus they saw our army charging close at their heels.
And we found our king again, lying upon the ground,
Like a sack of gold that robbers had abandoned,
Dead, bereft of breath.
And now we return bearing away this spoil.