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 He spurted his utmost to leave her, but yet The Empress crept up to him, stride upon stride. No need to say Charlie was riding her now, Yet still for all that he had something in hand, With here a sharp stoop to avoid a low bough, Or quick rise and fall as a tree-trunk they spanned. In his terror the brumby struck down the rough falls Towards Yiack, with fierce disregard for his neck: Tis useless, he finds, for the mare overhauls Him slowly: no timber could keep her in check.

There’s a narrow-beat pathway that winds to and fro Down the deeps of the gully, half-hid from the day; There’s a turn in the track where the hop-bushes grow And hide the grey granite that crosses the way, While sharp swerves the path round the boulder’s broad base: And now the last scene in the drama is played As the Lord of the Hills, with the mare in full chase, Swept towards it, and ere his long stride could be stayed, With a gathered momentum that gave not a chance Of escape, and a shuddering, sickening shock, Struck the pitiless granite that barred his advance And sobbed out his life at the foot of the rock; While Charlie pulled off with a twitch on the rein And an answering spring from his surefooted mount, One might say, unscathed, though a crimsoning stain Marked the graze of the granite; but that would ne’er count