Scene
A Rough, Hilly Country
HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses.Mountains in the distance. Night.
Hugo:See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes makeA fiery track that gleams in our wake;Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots,Our horses fly.
Orion: They are useful brutes,Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit’ningThe crest and rein of my courser “Lightning”;He pulls to-night, being short of work,And takes his head with a sudden jerk;Still heel and steady hand on the bit,For that is “Tempest” on which you sit.
Hugo:’Tis the bravest steed that ever I back’d;Did’st mark how he crossed yon cataract?From hoof to hoof I should like to measureThe space he clear’d.
Orion: He can clear at leisureA greater distance. Observe the chasmWe are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasmAs we flew over it?
Hugo: Not at all.
Orion:Nathless ’twas an ugly place for a fall.
Hugo:Let us try a race to yon mountain high,That rears its dusky peak ’gainst the sky.
Orion:I won’t disparage your horsemanship,But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip,And is hasty and hard to steer at times.We must travel far ere the midnight chimes;We must travel back ere the east is grey.Ho! “Lightning”! “Tempest”! Away! Away![They ride on faster.]