His robe of pride was thrown aside,

His brow no high-crowned turban bore,

But in its stead a shawl of red,

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore:

That dagger, on whose hilt the gem

Were worthy of a diadem,

No longer glittered at his waist,

Where pistols unadorned were braced; 620

And from his belt a sabre swung,

And from his shoulder loosely hung

The cloak of white, the thin capote

That decks the wandering Candiote;

Beneath—his golden plated vest

Clung like a cuirass to his breast;

The greaves below his knee that wound

With silvery scales were sheathed and bound.

But were it not that high command

Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 630

All that a careless eye could see

In him was some young Galiongée.[162]