XXIII.

“Rey’s petulant to-day,” quoth Nial. Straight A huge artillery waggon by their side, That fed our batteries, six strong horses’ freight, Struck by a shell, up-bounding scattered wide War’s provender. The missile dumb doth bide-- A minute’s pause of horrible suspense, That hushed each heart, and paled the cheek of Pride! Then with explosion terrible, immense, Its dire contents around were showered in ruin dense.