But leaned a little forward through the brake
That bloomed about her in a golden blaze;
Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze,
Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.
Then, gradually, the heaving battle swerved
To northward, faltering broken, and afar
It closed again, where, round a jutting scar,
The flashing torrent of the river curved.
With eager step Christine ran down the hill,
And sped across the late-forsaken field