But yet--what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 570 Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, "We come to die, Look down upon us for a little while, That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." But he--what look of mastery was this 575 He cast on her? why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E'en if to death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find 580 Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were clad in other guise? 585 Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, 590 This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woful victory fear? 595 But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang; and she must play her part; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, 600 But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand; 605 Then trembling she her feet together drew, And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Then from the course with eager steps she ran, 610 And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, 615 Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 620 Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won.