181 
The battle’s strife was well nigh o’er; 
When an archer, slight and slim. 
At Rupert aiming twanged his bow — 
Fate sped the shaft to him. 
From off his steed down sunk the Knight; 
The Archer-youth looked on 
A moment’s space—then bow and shafts 
Flung from him every one. 
And by the wounded Rupert knelt — 
’Twas strange to see a foe 
Striving all tenderly to staunch 
The blood he caused to flow! 
’Twas stranger yet to mark the tears, 
That in a quick warm shower. 
Streamed from that archer’s eyes, when fell 
A crushed long-faded flower 
From Rupert’s vest.—It seemed, in sooth. 
Some charm of wizard pow'er. 
Which thus that Archer’s spirit quelled 
In such a stirring hour. 
Stranger and yet more strange it seemed, 
When cap and waving plume 
Unheeded from his brow fell down, 
