Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/99
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Jungle, and sea, and canescent sun,
And the labored passage of the days!
"Are we fools," they cried, "still to wait?
Twenty, thirty, forty days have passed!
Still no white sail peaks the blue!
Death and starvation claim us one by one!
Let us, ere it be too late, depart!"
But wait they did, even the fifty days,
Restrained to duty by the grim Pizarro,
A man they hated, admired, feared,
Yet a man,—they obeyed.
And when at last the time for their release—
"Now," swore they, "by Christ! we shall depart!"
And would straighway have rushed pell-mell
Upon the two small, anchored brigantines
Had not, with imperative gesture, Pizarro stayed them.
"You are," his level voice arraigned, "truly fools!
Else, long since, had you made your count
And found those tiny cockle-shells of boats
Incapable by half of carrying the whole of you!"
They hesitated; they examined; they confirmed.
With desperate eyes ablaze with fear;
With hands and feet that shook in ague;
With lips grown dryer far than dry;
They surged them back to where Pizarro stood,
Gazing, seemingly impassive, across the sea.
"It is," they moaned, "even as you say!
Who shall go and who, alas, shall stay?
Ah, Mother of God, what plight is ours!"
Looking with eyes untenanted by emotion
Upon the men gone, like a flook of sheep, afraid—
"There is a way," he said, "to make decision
Of who shall go and who shall stay.
There is a way,—were you men!"
And the pitiful things with blood-shot eyes,
With white lips edging whiter teeth,
With bony, tremulous talon-hands,
Replied, as in a whisper, "We be men!"
And Pizarro, master of himself and them,
And the labored passage of the days!
"Are we fools," they cried, "still to wait?
Twenty, thirty, forty days have passed!
Still no white sail peaks the blue!
Death and starvation claim us one by one!
Let us, ere it be too late, depart!"
But wait they did, even the fifty days,
Restrained to duty by the grim Pizarro,
A man they hated, admired, feared,
Yet a man,—they obeyed.
And when at last the time for their release—
"Now," swore they, "by Christ! we shall depart!"
And would straighway have rushed pell-mell
Upon the two small, anchored brigantines
Had not, with imperative gesture, Pizarro stayed them.
"You are," his level voice arraigned, "truly fools!
Else, long since, had you made your count
And found those tiny cockle-shells of boats
Incapable by half of carrying the whole of you!"
They hesitated; they examined; they confirmed.
With desperate eyes ablaze with fear;
With hands and feet that shook in ague;
With lips grown dryer far than dry;
They surged them back to where Pizarro stood,
Gazing, seemingly impassive, across the sea.
"It is," they moaned, "even as you say!
Who shall go and who, alas, shall stay?
Ah, Mother of God, what plight is ours!"
Looking with eyes untenanted by emotion
Upon the men gone, like a flook of sheep, afraid—
"There is a way," he said, "to make decision
Of who shall go and who shall stay.
There is a way,—were you men!"
And the pitiful things with blood-shot eyes,
With white lips edging whiter teeth,
With bony, tremulous talon-hands,
Replied, as in a whisper, "We be men!"
And Pizarro, master of himself and them,
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