XIII.

He gazed before, he glanced behind; There, o'er the steep rock seems to wind The devious, scarce-seen path, a snake In slime and sloth might, labouring, make. With a wild cry he springs;--he crawls; Crag upon crag he clears;--and falls Breathless and mute; and o'er him stands, Pale as himself, the chasing foe-- Mercy! what mean those clasped hands, Those lips that tremble so?