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 "It's he! It's he! The plumage, the wreath, The hat, the eye that sparkles beneath. It is his cloak. It's he! It's he! 'The Dreadful Forest Lord.'" Impatiently thus shouts the restless, crowding horde. As the stormy waters, grows the din on every side Rising with every step of the captive's weary stride. Around him crowds the mob—as when clouds obscure the skies, Like a passing lightning flash, the weapons gleam in the sun. Slowly the doomed man walks, to earth are fixed his eyes. The church bells ring the while for him, prays every one.

Above the lake's green banks stretches a grassy knoll, A pole upon it stands, a torture wheel its crown. A steep sloped hill nearby towers above the pole, And from its highest peak the chapel's shadows frown. With a measured stride the group reaches the chapel's side: The soldiers step away—the captive stands there free. He is led out once more this nature's shrine to see,