The choice bits from the saddle hung, The deer’s fat haunch, the buffalo’s tongue, A simple but a sweet repast To cheer his long and painful fast. Slow paced the strong but weary steed Of spacious chest and lightning speed, A coal black of the Norman breed Who ne’er had failed in time of need; A creature full of strength and grace, The noblest of his noble race In toil, in battle, or the chase, To hunt the bear on mountain side, To chase the deer o’er prairie wide, Or dash upon the ambuscade Of wily Indian foe arrayed, Or plunge through winter’s deepest snow, Or breast the torrent’s swiftest flow. [Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS Fairview, Christian County, Kentucky] To huntsman who has borne the toil, Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil; So mused McGregor in his mind, Leading his steed, when far behind, Upon his startled ears there came A rushing sound of distant flame-- A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound, As when an earthquake shakes the ground. Or the volcano’s voice of wrath Warns all to leave the lava’s path. A moment scarce he turned his head, Too well he knew that sound of dread, A moment--and McGregor saw A sight to chill his soul with awe; Behind him, hastening onward came A long, red serpent line of flame, Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light Upward into the gathering night, While midway ’twixt the earth and sky Like a death-angel hovering by, The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread, The awful banner of the dead. Quickly the burden was untied-- “Now, Saladin!” the huntsman cried, “Now, Saladin, my gallant steed, Attest thyself of noble breed, For never yet thy matchless speed Has served us in so sore a need, And never in the fiercest chase Hast thou e’er made so dread a race As this wild fight for life or death From yon fire-demon’s scorching breath.” With nostrils spread and pointed ear, And eye of fierceness, not of fear, A moment brief, Saladin halted, While to his seat his rider vaulted, A moment snuffed the hot flame’s breath, The stifling atmosphere of death; A moment shook his streaming mane, Then sped like lightning o’er the plain-- Fly! Not for one brief moment stay-- Fly, for thy life--away, away! Stretch every muscle--sinew--fly! To pause one moment is to die! Weary and worn and spent with pain, The struggling steed bounds o’er the plain Each iron sinew vainly straining; The fire upon his path is gaining; The mad flame brighter and brighter glows, The fatal circle smaller grows, And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher, Leap the red demons of the fire.