134
THE TROUBADOUR.
Then sought the field of death anew,—
Little was there for knight to do.
That field was strewn with dead and dying;
And mark'd he there De Valence lying
Upon the turbann'd heap, which told
How dearly had his life been sold.
And yet on his curl'd lip was worn
The impress of a soldier's scorn;
And yet his dark and glazed eye
Glared its defiance stern and high:
His head was on his shield, his hand
Held to the last his own red brand.
Felt Raymond all too proud for grief
In gazing on the gallant chief:
So, thought he, should a warrior fall,
A victor dying last of all.
