  "To arms!" the battle bugles blew. The daughter of their Chief was she,— Lord of a thousand spears and true;— He but a squire of low degree. The horns of war blew up to horse: He kissed her mouth; her face was white: "God grant they bear thee back no corse!" "God give I win my spurs to-night!" The watch-towers' blazing beacons scarred With blood-red wounds the face of night: She heard men gallop battleward; She saw their armor gleam with light. "My God, deliver me and mine! My child! my love!"—all night she prayed: She watched the battle beacons shine; She watched the battle beacons fade.... They brought him on a bier of spears.— For him, the death-won spurs and name; For her, the grief of lonely years, And donjon walls to hide her shame. |
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