Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/126

100 Dealt him a blow that levelled him once more, Until he haggard lay, and gasping sore Like some sea-monster. "So your mother, then, Was not, it seems, the only mould of men," Said Vincen, jeeringly. "Go tell the tale Of my fist's weight to bulls in Sylvarèal.

"Go to the waste of the Camargan isle, And hide your bruises and your shame awhile Among your beasts!" So saying, he loosed this one, As shearer in the fold a ram full-grown Pins with his knees till shorn; then, with a blow Upon the crupper, bids him freely go.

Bursting with rage and all defiled with dust, The herdsman went his ways. But wherefore must He linger ferreting about the heath, Amid the oaks and broom, under his breath Muttering curses? until suddenly He stoops, then swings his savage trident high,

And darts on Vincen. For him all is done. Vain were the hope that murderous lance to shun, And the boy paled as on the day he died; Not fearing death, but that he could not bide The treachery. A felon's prey to be! That stung the manly soul to agony.