Even at the pass of Beal ’maha.
But steep and flinty was the road,
And sharp the hurrying pikeman’s goad,
And when we came to Dennan’s Row,
A child might scathless[228] stroke his brow.”
V.
NORMAN.
“That bull was slain: his reeking hide
They stretch’d the cataract beside,
Whose waters their wild tumult toss