Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/97

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The marshal said."Just once at fifty feet;A moving target too.That's just about as goodAs any man could do.A little tough;But since he ranI call it fair enough."
He mopped his head and started down the road.The silence eddied around him, turned and flowedSoftly back, and pressed against the ears,Until unnumbered flies set it to droning,And, down the heat, I heard a woman moaning.
Contemporary VerseDuBose Heyward


FRANCISCO PIZARRO
"Desperate, my men, are our straits.Natives with vemon-pointed darts harass us.Hunger draws taut our fevered skins.Disaster, ever-renewed, makes us its mock.Death bends and breaks our serried ranks.All cause is there for grim despair:Yet, since you be Spaniards, despair not.I sail this very day for HispaniolaThere to hasten necessary succor.Lest it be said that we, like cowards,Abandoned under stress our chosen courseI shall leave, of you all, seventy here.Nay, until I be finished, murmur not.I appointed in my absence as Governor, Francisco Pizarro,Knowing you believe, my men, in the courage that is his.

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