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Updated: May 28, 2025
Yet for the right The woodman holds the field; Now left, now right, repels the knight, His pole full stoutly wields. His whistle clear rings full of cheer, And lo! his comrades true, All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty, Burst on Sir Konrad's view. His horse's rein he grasps amain Into his selle to spring, His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel Has caught, his weapons ring.
The ascent was still rather sharp, and the way strewn with boulders, and fallen trees, but the awful precipice, with its sheer drop of many hundreds of feet to the black rocks below, no longer yawned at her stirrup's edge, and it was with a deep-drawn breath of relief that she allowed her eyes once again to travel out over the vast sweep of waste toward the west where the moon hung low and red above the distant rim of the bad lands.
Alone are seen the tints of green upon his sword-belt spread, For by that blade the blood of foes in vengeance shall be shed. The color of the mantle which on his arm he bore Is like the dark arena's dust when it is drenched in gore. Black as the buskins that he wears, and black his stirrup's steel, And red with rust of many a year the rowels at his heel.
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