Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.
As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,
And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.
For she who had held him so long could not hold him—
Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him!—
But watched the twin Terror—the head turned to head—
The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red—
The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to
Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.
But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,
And muttered aloud, "So you kept that jade earring!"
Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
"Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end."
*******
The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion:—
"He took what I said in this horrible fashion?
"I'll write to Harendra!" With language unsainted
The Captain came back to the Bride . . . who had fainted.
*******
And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,
