Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy and low,
As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; they think
To entrap him when back from the terrible brink
Of the chasm he returns, for his steed cannot leap
The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when its steep
Ragged walls ope before him, with death lying deep
In the darkness below; they will seize him, and take
From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and stake,
Every secret it holds; then his life-blood may flow,
But he never shall ride to the camp of Bugeaud.