But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to the starting-point they were, 100 A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 105 But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around, And even then he felt her past him bound 110 Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, For no victorious joy her red lips smiled; 115 Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, 120 One moment gazed upon her piteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word 125 He knelt before the bearer of the sword; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence how, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, 130 And he to hers upturned his sad white face; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. * * * * * So was the pageant ended, and all folk, Talking of this and that familiar thing 135 In little groups from that sad concourse broke, For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, And soon dark night would slay the evening, And in dark gardens sang the nightingale Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 140 And with the last of all the hunter went, Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen, Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, Both why the vanquished man so slain had been, And if the maiden were an earthly queen, 145 Or rather what much more she seemed to be, No sharer in the world's mortality.