A man and maid of aspect wan and wild,

Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came.

O wretched father! O unhappy child!

Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring; . . .

Is this the daring man

Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan?

Is this the wretch condemned to feel

Kehama’s dreadful wrath?

Them were all hearts of all the throng deploring,

For not in that innumerable throng

Was one who lov’d the dead; for who could know

What aggravated wrong

Provok’d the desperate blow!

Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight,

In ordered files the torches flow along,

One ever-lengthening line of gliding light:

Far . . . far behind,

Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour,

Of horn, and trump, and tambour;