Xiv

"Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly; "Ha!" the trumpets answered grandly. Proudly priest whirled, knife on high, While the maiden bowed--to die.

Sudden, through the ranks beside her, Scattering men, like sparks of flint, Burst a snow-white horse and rider, Rapid as the lightning's glint.

One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver Headless, in his beloved river, In the twinkling of an eye, All the rest are dead, or fly.