“So ’twas we three. Each set between his teeth A bit of willow, thus to save his breath; Shook hands all round; then, one foot on the line, Trembling and eager we await the sign For starting. It is given. Off we fly; We scour the plain like mad,--’tis you! ’tis I! “Wrapped in a cloud of dust, with smoking hair, We strain each nerve. Ah, what a race was there! They thought we should have won the goal abreast, Till I, presumptuous, sprang before the rest: And that was my undoing; for I dropped Pale, dying as it seemed. But never stopped “The others. On, on, on, with steady gait, Just like the pasteboard horses at Aix fête. The famous Marseillais thought he must win (They used to say of him he had no spleen); But, ah! my lady, on that day of days, He found his man,--Lou Cri of Mouriès. “For now they pass beyond the gazing line, And almost touch the goal. O beauty mine! Couldst thou have seen Lou Cri leap forward then! Never, I think, in mountain, park, or glen, A stag, a hare, so fleet of foot you’d find. Howled like a wolf the other, just behind. “Lou Cri is victor!--hugs the post for joy. Then all of Nismes comes flocking round the boy, To learn the birthplace of this wondrous one. The pewter plate is flashing in the sun, The hautboys flourish, cymbals clang apace, As he receives the guerdon of the race.” “And Lagalanto?” asks Mirèio. “Why, he upon the ground was sitting low, Powdered with dust, the shifting folk among, Clasping his knees. With shame his soul was wrung And, with the drops that from his forehead fell, Came tears of bitterness unspeakable. “Lou Cri approached, and made a modest bow. ‘Brother, let’s to the ale-house arbour now, Behind the amphitheatre. Why borrow, Upon this festive day, tears for the morrow? The money left we’ll drink together thus: There’s sunshine yet enough for both of us.’ “Then trembling rose the runner of Marseilles, And from his limbs made haste to tear away The silken hose, the golden bells. ‘Here, lad!’ Raising his pallid face, ‘take them!’ he said. ‘I am grown old; youth decks thee like a swan; So put the strong man’s gear with honour on.’ “He turned, stricken like an ash the storm bereaves In summer-time of all its tower of leaves. The king of runners vanished from the place; And never more ran he in any race, Nor even leaped on the inflated hide, In games at Saint John’s or St. Peter’s tide.” So Vincen told the story, waxing warm, Of all he’d seen, before the Lotus Farm. His cheeks grew red, his eyes were full of light; He waved his hand to point his speech aright,-- Abundant was the same as showers in May That fall upon a field of new-mown hay.