One boyish Greek, of princely line, Lay splashed with blood and wounded sore; His wan face in its anguish bore The delicate symmetry divine Carved by the old sculptors of his land; A broken blade was in his hand, Half slipping from the forceless hold That once had swayed it long and well; And round his form in tatters fell The velvet raiment flowered with gold. But while the calm night later grew He heard the stealthy, rustling sound Of one who trailed on laggard knees A shattered shape along the ground; And soon with sharp surprise he knew That in the encircling gloom profound A fierce Turk crawled by slow degrees To where in helpless pain he lay. Then, too, he witnessed with dismay That from the prone Turk's rancorous eye Flashed the barbaric lurid trace Of hate's indomitable hell-- Such hate as death alone could quell, As death alone could satisfy. Closer the loitering figure drew, With naked bosom red from fight, With ruthless fingers clutching tight A dagger stained by murderous hue, Till now, in one great lurch, he threw His whole frame forward, aiming quick A deadly, inexorable blow, That, weakly faltering, missed its mark, And left the assassin breathing thick, Levelled by nerveless overthrow, There near the Greek chief, in the dark. Then he that saw the baffled crime, Half careless of his life's release, Since death must win him soon as prey, Turned on his foe a smile sublime With pity, and the stars of Greece Beheld him smile, and only they. All night the two lay side by side, Each near to death, yet living each; All night the grim Turk moaned and cried, Beset with pangs of horrid thirst, Save when his dagger crept to reach, By wandering, ineffectual way, The prostrate Greek he yearned to slay, And failure stung him till he cursed. But when soft prophecies of morn Had wrapped the sea in wistful white, A band of men, with faces worn, Clomb inland past a beetling height To find the young chief they adored, Sought eagerly since fall of sun, And now in ghastly change restored.... One raised a torch of ruddy shine, And, kneeling by their leader, one Set to his mouth a gourd of wine. Then the young Greek, with wave of hand, Showed the swart pagan at his side; So, motioning to the gathered band, That none could choose but understand, "Let this man drink," he said, and died. EDGAR FAWCETT. STUDIES IN THE SLUMS. IV.--JACK.