His sword is a green meteor, half-extinguished. His face is without form, and dark. He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill. He foresaw the fall of his race. A green vale surrounded a tomb which arose in the times of old.
Little hills lift their heads at a distance, and stretch their old trees to the wind.
The warriors of Caros sat there, for they had passed the stream by night. They appeared like the trunks of aged pines, to the pale light of the morning. Oscar stood at the tomb, and raised thrice his terrible voice. My son, though alone, is brave. The mark of their arm is in a thousand battles.