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Ruddier yet than his scarlet cloak
Ran the blood from his name.
Stood he there with soft-spoken words,
But the rank of his bloodthirsty crew
Closed like a ring of fire
Round about the proffered peace.
Now should the old man his daughter
Lay in this sinister ring—
Like a sacrificial offering
Doomed to the glowing pyre?
Straight she had grown on the farmstead,
Ripened like corn in the sunshine,
Blithely welcomed its kindly light
Through the window stealing each morning;
Like a fanciful legend she crept
Into his serious musings,
Bringing both tears and laughter
Into his strenuous mood.
“Trand!” rose the cry, “what sayest thou, Trand?”
Dull the swords fell, and the shields
Rang, while, intent on the barter,
Pressed they all of them forward.
Trand stood pale in the torchlight….
She who bore all the hope of his race
Hid in her blushing thought,
She should be offered up?
She who stood for the only hope
At eventide left to his life,
Should now like a new-kindled light be quenched
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