Naked, abject, let him fare As the lowest of the herd: There, while chains his body gird, Let him grovel and so die: For Daria, too, hard by Is another public place, Shameful home of worse disgrace, Where imprisoned let her lie: If, relying on the powers Of her beauty, her vain pride Dreamed of being my son's bride, Never shall she see that hour.

Thereafter, stretched upon his bed of heather, Beltane watches Black Roger gird on belt and quiver, and, bow in hand, stride blithely into the green, and, ere he knows it, is asleep.