IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
     Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.