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The runners came up the road, pausing for a moment by the gate. I heard it creak, and saw two or three dark forms enter the field the remainder tearing on up the road with a great clatter of boots. "Alas, my poor Jacques!" moan'd Sir Deakin: "and to be butcher'd so, that never in his days kill'd a man but as if he lov'd him!" "Sir," I whisper'd harshly, "if you keep this noise I must gag you."
He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother he their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday. All this rush'd with his blood Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise ye Goths and glut your ire.
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