Now the silence is broken by neigh and by champ
And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the camp
Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light, and as free
As the bridegroom who goes to his marriage may be.
With prance and with gallop and gay caracole
His swift steed bounds along, as if spurning control;
But the bridle‐hand guides him unerring and true,
And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answering thew.
Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly from sight,
Till both rider and steed sink away in the night.
But they go not unheard, and they speed not unseen;
Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fiercely and keen
From dim ambush around; then like spectres arise
White‐robed figures that follow; the rider descries
Them on slope and in hollow, and knows they pursue.
But he fears not their craft or the deeds they may do,
For his brave steed is eager and strong, and the pace
Growing faster and faster each stride of the chase.
Now the slopes right and left seem alive with the foe
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.