So Wingate saw it, vision or truth, Through the colored window of his own youth, Building an image out of his mind To live or die for, as Fate inclined.

He drank his fill of the air, and then, Was just about to ride on again When⁠—what was that noise beyond the sky, That harry of unseen cavalry Riding the wind? His own horse stirred, Neighing. He listened. There was a word. He could not hear it⁠—and yet he heard. It was an arrow from ambush flung, It was a bell with a leaden tongue Striking an hour. He was young No longer. He and his horse were old, And both were bound with an iron band. He slipped from the saddle and tried to stand. He struck one hand with the other hand. But both were cold.