Fell terribly the keen-edged steel: my pretty dove was slain.
He shrank in horror; from his face all trace of color fled,
While I sank down upon my knees beside the pulseless dead;
And loud I cried, “A deed is thine which even fiends abhor!
Her soul shall rise and thine shall sink, thou bloody wolf of war!”
“Ach Gott!” he said, and spake no more; then, mounting on his steed,
Struck deep the rowels in its flanks, and rode in headlong speed.
Ruth did not on the instant die, and, ere she breathed her last,
Soft cradled in my loving arms, her life-blood flowing fast,
There went a shudder through her frame, a glazing of the eye,