The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die
Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.

Then eager feast they made; and after long
And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong
As they had been of old. And of their fare
The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.

Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,
But set to hunt again, and through the wood
Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun
Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one
Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white
Of those who waited their return by night,
In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade--
O' many a beauteous and bethrothèd maid,
And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying
In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,
And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,
With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came
With burdens of the chase ... So they pursued
The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood
Another deer they slew ...

Caoilte, who stood
On a high ridge alone ... with eager eyes
Scanning the prospect wide ... in mute surprise
Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud
Of thick and writhing smoke ... Then fierce and loud
Upon his horn he blew the warning blast--