They gloried in their brown-robed priest; and

often, dark in thought,

The warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the

word he brought,

While round the kindly man-at-arms their lithe-

limbed children played

And shot their arrows at his shield and rode his

guarded blade.

When thrice the silver crescent had filled its

curving shell

The friar rose at dawning and bade his flock

farewell :

And if your brothers northward be cruel,

even so,

My Master bids me teach them; and dare I

answer/ No ? & quot;

But where he trod in quenchless zeal the path of

thorns once more,

A savage cohort swept the plain in paint and plume

of war.