As in kindly wise I spoke Thus unto the joyless snow, Came a shot--and from the skies Plunged a hawk of brownish wing. It was just a hunter's joke Of Lascaro's. But his face Was as ever stark and grim, And his rifle barrel smoked. Silently he tore a plume From the hawk's erected tail, Stuck it in his pointed hat And resumed his silent way. 'Twas an eerie sight to see How his shadow black and thin With the nodding feather moved O'er the slopes of drifted snow. [Illustration] CANTO XVII Lo, a valley like a street! 'Tis the Hollow Way of Ghosts: Dizzily the cloven crags Tower up on every side. There upon the sheerest slope Hangs Uraka's little shack Like some outpost over chaos-- Thither fared her son and I. In a secret dumb-show speech He took counsel with his dam, How great Atta Troll might best Be ensnared and safely slain. We had found his mighty spoor. Never more canst thou escape From our hands! thine earthly days All are numbered--Atta Troll! Never could I well determine If Uraka, ancient hag, Was in truth a potent witch, As within these Pyrenees It was rumoured. But I know That in truth her very looks Were suspicious. Most suspicious Were her red and running eyes. Evil is her look and slant. It is said whene'er she stares At some hapless cow, its milk Dries, its udder withers straight. It is said that stroking with Her thin fingers, many a kid She had slaughtered, many a huge Ox had stricken unto death. Oft within the local court For such crimes arraigned she stood, But the Justice of the Peace Was a true Voltairean. Quite a modern worldling he, Shallow and devoid of faith,-- So the plaintiffs he dismissed Both in mockery and scorn. The alleged official trade Of Uraka's honest quite, For she deals in mountain-herbs And in birds that she has stuffed. Her entire hut was crammed With such relics. Horrible Was the smell of cuckoo-flowers, Fungi, henbane, elder-blooms. There a fine array of hawks To advantage was displayed, All with pinions stretching wide And with grim enormous bills. Was it but the breath of these Maddening plants that turned my brain? Still the vision of these birds Filled me with the strangest thoughts. These perchance are mortal wights, Bound by sorcery in this Miserable state as birds Stuffed and most disconsolate. Sad, pathetic is their stare, Yet it hath impatience too, And, methinks at times they cast Sidelong glances at the witch. She, Uraka, ancient, grim, Crouches low beside her son, Mute Lascaro near the fire Where the twain are casting slugs.