Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

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           Their sole survivor now! his captors bear

             Him all unconscious, and beside the stream

           Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare

             The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam

           Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare

             Expectant of the torture; yet alway

           His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there

             With peace they know not, till at close of day

             On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!"

           He starts!  Was it a trick?  Had angels kind

             Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast?

           Such things he'd read of!  Faintly to his mind

             Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest.

           But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined

             To baritone!  A squaw in ragged gown

           Stood near him, frowning hatred.  Was he blind?

             Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown?

             The frown was painted, but that wink meant—Brown!

           "Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut,"

             He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse.

           One dash!—I follow close, as if to glut

             My own revenge, yet bar the others' course.

           Now!"  And 'tis done.  Grey speeds, Brown follows; but

             Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels,

           Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut

             His in, uplifting him!  Anon he feels

             A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels.

           Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang

             Headlong the savages in swift pursuit;

           Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang

             Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot.

           Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang

             The short, hard panting of his gallant steed

           Beneath its double burden; vainly rang

             Both voice and spur.  The heaving flanks may bleed,

             Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed!

           Brown saw it—reined his steed; dismounting, stood

             Calm and inflexible.  "Old chap! you see

           There is but ONE escape.  You know it?  Good!

             There is ONE man to take it.  You are he.

           The horse won't carry double.  If he could,

             'Twould but protract this bother.  I shall stay:

           I've business with these devils, they with me;

             I will occupy them till you get away.

             Hush! quick time, forward.  There! God bless you, Grey!"

           But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet,

             Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye:

           "You do forget yourself when you compete

             With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die:

           That's not YOUR duty.  Please regain your seat;

             And take my ORDERS—since I rank you here!—

           Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat

             Report at quarters.  Take this letter; ne'er

             Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere."

           And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took

             Obediently and placed it in his pocket;

           Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look

             For death as you do, wherefore take this locket

           And letter."  Here his comrade's hand he shook

             In silence.  "Should we both together fall,

           Some other man"—but here all speech forsook

             His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all

             He heard afar his own dear bugle-call!

           'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then

             Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot

           He likewise had been wounded, and both men

             Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot.

           Long lay they in extremity, and when

             They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged

           Old vows and memories, one common "den"

             In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged,

             Awaiting orders, but no more estranged.

           And yet 'twas strange—nor can I end my tale

             Without this moral, to be fair and just:

           They never sought to know why each did fail

             The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust.

           It was suggested they could not avail

             Themselves of either letter, since they were

           Duly dispatched to their address by mail

             By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair

             Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.