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XXII. CROSSBOW

Sir Eustace goes to the far Crusade
In radiant armour drest;
And my First is graven on his blade,
And broidered on his breast.
And a flush is on his cheek and brow.
And a fever in his blood,
As he stands upon my Second now,
And gazes on the flood.
Away, away!—the canvas drives
Like a sea-bird's rustling wing;
My Whole hath a score of Moslem lives
Upon its twanging string.