“You crow well, my cockerel, ere you have spurs;

Has your mother more such in that rare brood of hers?”

Then he laughed, and his forefinger rose, as he said,

“You carry the mark of my spur on your head—

Who’ll give me a drink?” as at word of command

A dozen canteens were thrust ready to hand;

But ere he could choose, from his features there shrank

The blood till he paled, then he staggered and sank.

We raised him; I stooped there and pillowed his head

On my knee; and I shivered—I thought he was dead.