He toss'd again his iron hand Above the deep, steep desert space, Above the burning seas of sand, And look'd his black men in the face. They spake not, nor look'd back again, They struck the heel, they clutch'd the rein, And down the darkling plunging steep They dropped toward the dried-up deep. Below! It seem'd a league below, The black men rode, and she rode well, Against the gleaming sheening haze That shone like some vast sea ablaze, That seem'd to gleam, to glint, to glow As if it mark'd the shores of hell. Then Morgan stood alone, look'd back From off the fierce wall where he stood, And watch'd his dusk approaching foe. He saw him creep along his track, Saw him descending from the wood, And smiled to see how worn and slow. Then when his foemen hounding came In pistol-shot of where he stood, He wound his hand in his steed's mane, And plunging to the desert plain, Threw back his white beard like a cloud, And looking back did shout aloud Defiance like a stormy flood, And shouted, "Vasques!" called his name, And dared him to the desert flame. XIX. A cloud of dust adown the steep, Where scarce a whirling hawk would sweep, The cloud his foes had follow'd fast, And Morgan like a cloud had pass'd, Yet passed like some proud king of old; And now mad Vasques could not hold Control of his one wild desire To meet old Morgan, in his ire. He cursed aloud, he shook his rein Above the desert darkling deep, And urged his steed toward the steep, But urged his weary steed in vain. Old Morgan heard his oath and shout, And Morgan turn'd his head once more, And wheel'd his stout steed short about, Then seem'd to count their numbers o'er. And then his right hand touch'd his steel, And then he tapp'd his iron heel And seem'd to fight with thought. At last, As if the final die was cast, And cast as carelessly as one Would toss a white coin in the sun, He touch'd his rein once more, and then His pistol laid with idle heed Prone down the toss'd mane of his steed, And he rode down the rugged way Tow'rd where the wide, white desert lay, By broken gorge and cavern'd den, And join'd his band of midnight men. Some say the gray old man had crazed From mountain fruits that he had pluck'd While winding through the wooded ways Above the steep. But others say That he had turn'd aside and suck'd Sweet poison from the honey dews That lie like manna all the day On dewy leaves so crystal fair And temptingly that none refuse; That thus made mad the man did dare Confront the desert and despair.