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Now dead lies the yeoman unwept and unknown On the field he hath furrowed, the ridge he hath sown: And all in the middle of wethers and neat The maidens are driven with blood on their feet; For yet 'twixt the Burg-gate and battle half-won The dust-driven highway creeps uphill and on, And the smoke of the beacons goes coiling aloft, While the gathering horn bloweth loud, louder and oft.
Then the silvery swimming world of white dust-driven fire became suddenly black and the earth seemed removed from under him. In the village the natives were awakened from their lethargic sleep by the far-away crash of the avalanche. Their faces blanched as they thought of the hunters. "The hill spirits have smitten! Ioh! Ioh!" they moaned.
"Then the glacial mountainside to which he clung trembled . . . the silver-swimming world of white dust-driven fire became suddenly black and the earth seemed removed from under him . . ." Leaving the low-lying shore, Ootah's path led up through a narrow gorge between two great cliffs. Since he had returned from the mountains the path had been covered by many successive falls of snow.
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