And furious charge, their muzzles lowering;
Retire, and charge again. The ominous sound
Of crashing horns fills all the spaces round.
And long, I ween, the battle is, and dire.
The combatants are maddened by desire.
Puissant Love urges and goads them on.
So here, with either doughty champion.
’Twas Ourrias who received the first hard touch;
And, being threatened with another such,
Lifts his huge fist and lays young Vincen flat
As with a club. “There, urchin, parry that!”
“See if I have a scratch, man!” cried the lad.
The other, “Bastard, count the knocks you’ve had!”
“Count you the ounces of hot blood,” he shouted,
“Monster, that from your flattened nose have spouted!”
And then they grapple; bend and stretch their best,
With foot to foot, shoulder to shoulder, prest.
Their arms are wreathed and coiled like serpents fell
The veins within their necks to bursting swell
And tense their muscles with the mighty strain.
Long time they stiff and motionless remain,
With pulsing flanks, like flap of bustard’s wing.
And, one against the other steadying,
Bear up like the abutments huge and wide
Of that great bridge the Gardoun56 doth bestride.
Anon they part: their doubled fists upraise,
Once more the pestle in the mortar brays,
And in their fury ply they tooth or nail.
Good God! the blows of Vincen fall like hail.
Yet ah! what club-like hits the herdsman deals!
And, as their crushing weight the weaver feels,
He whirls as whirls a sling about his foe,
And backward bends to deal his fiercest blow.
“Look your last, villain!” Ere the word said he,
The mighty herdsman seized him bodily,
And flung him o’er his shoulder far away,
As a Provençal shovels wheat. He lay
A moment on his side, not sorely hurt.
“Pick up, O worm!” cried Ourrias—“pick the dirt
“You have displaced, and eat it, if you will!”
“Enough of that! Brute who was broken ill,
We’ll have three rounds before this game is over!”
With bitter hate retorts the poor boy-lover;
And, reddening to his very hair for shame,
Rears like a dragon to retrieve his fame.
And, daring death, he on the brute hath flown,
And dealt a blow marvellous in such an one
Straight from the shoulder to the other’s breast,
Who reeled and groped for that whereon to rest,
With darkening eyes and brow cold-beaded, till
He crashed to earth, and all La Crau was still.
Its misty limit blent with the far sea;
The sea’s with the blue ether, dreamily.
Still in mid-air there floated shining things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their rosy wings,
Come to salute the last of the sunset
Along the desert meres that glimmered yet.
The white mare of the herdsman lazily
Pulled at the dwarf-oak leaves that grew thereby:
The iron stirrups of the creature jangled,
As loose and heavy at her sides they dangled.
“Stir, and I crush you, ruffian!” Vincen said:
“ ’Tis not by feet that men are measurèd!”
Then in the silent wold the victor pressed
His heel upon the brander’s prostrate breast,
Who writhed beneath it vainly, while the blood
Sluggish and dark from lips and nostrils flowed.
Thrice did he strive the horny foot to move,
And thrice the basket-weaver from above
Dealt him a blow that levelled him once more,
Until he haggard lay, and gasping sore
Like some sea-monster. “So your mother, then,
Was not, it seems, the only mould of men,”
Said Vincen, jeeringly. “Go tell the tale
Of my fist’s weight to bulls in Sylvarèal.
“Go to the waste of the Camargan isle,
And hide your bruises and your shame awhile
Among your beasts!” So saying, he loosed his hold,
As some great ram, a shearer in the fold
Pins with his knees till shorn; then, with a blow
Upon the crupper, bids him freely go.
Bursting with rage and all defiled with dust,
The herdsman went his ways. But wherefore must
He linger ferreting about the heath,
Amid the oaks and broom, under his breath
Muttering curses? until suddenly
He stoops, then swings his savage trident high,
And darts on Vincen. For him all is done.
Vain were the hope that murderous lance to shun,
And the boy paled as on the day he died;
Not fearing death, but that he could not bide
The treachery. A felon’s prey to be!
That stung the manly soul to agony.
“Traitor, you dare not!” But the lad restrains
The word, firm as a martyr in his pains;
For yon’s the farmstead hidden by the trees.
Tenderly, wistfully, he turns to these.
“O my Mirèio!” said the eager eye,
“Look hither, darling—’tis for you I die!”
Great heart, intent as ever on his love!
“Say your prayers!” thundered Ourrias from above
In a hoarse voice, and pitiless to hear,
And pierced the victim with his iron spear.
Then, with a heavy groan, the fated lover
Upon the green-sward rolled, and all was over.
The beaten grass is dark with human gore,
And the field-ants already coursing o’er
The prostrate limbs ere Ourrias mounts, and hies
Under the rising moon in frantic wise;
Muttering, as the flints beneath him fly,
“To-night the Crau wolves will feast merrily.”
Deep stillness reigned in Crau. Its limit dim
Blent with the sea’s on the horizon’s rim,
The sea’s with the blue ether. Gleaming things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their ruddy wings,
Came to salute the last declining light
Among the desert meres that glimmered white.
Away, Ourrias, away! Draw not the rein,
Urge thy unresting gallop o’er the plain,
While the green heron57 shout their fearsome cries
In thy mare’s ear, as the good creature flies,
Till her ear trembles, and her nostrils quiver,
And eyes dilate. That night the great Rhône River
Slept on his stony bed beneath the moon,
As pilgrim of Sainte Baume58 may lay him down,
Fevered and weary, in a deep ravine.
“Ho!” cries the ruffian to three boatmen seen,
“Ho! Boat ahoy! We must cross, hark ye there!
On board or in the hold, I and my mare!”
“On board, my hearty, then, without delay!
There shines the night-lamp! And lured by its ray,”
Answered a cheery voice, “about our prow
And oars the fish frisk playfully enow.
It is good fishing, and the hour is fair.
On board at once! We have no time to spare.”
Therewith upon the poop the villain clomb.
While, tethered to the stern, amid the foam
Swam the white mare. Now fishes huge and scaly
Forsook their grottoes, and leaped upward gayly,
And flashed on the smooth surface of the stream.
“Have a care, pilot! For this craft I deem
“Nowise too sound.” And he who spake once more
Lay foot to stretcher, bent
