The sound of bubbling madness; the insanity of a throated pitch; spears heading for enemies' hearts. Meanwhile loud rustling of wind and the quick clash of arms, the thrust of bodies head-long into flight, and far off flowers; a cool hyacinth shudders, curls, and falls by raging streams. The foam flecks the speckled rocks, a butterfly perches on the wetted blossom, licks, takes off. Now leaves rustle, and shrubs weighed down with pregnant berries. Menalcan is playing the pipe, puts down the pans, and with a rugged knife he cuts a fawn from tender bark. The sun is setting near the hills, mixing with the falls in brilliant streams of red and orange and gold, so that the chills are water running down like precious gems, like all silk hems of finely-woven sheens. In the decorated chambers, maidens dance with maidens to the music of the lute that rushes through the rafters and the floors, where hoardes of decorated men all gleaming in their iron mail clink clashing cups and laugh and sup on venison from recent fallen stags, who lay there quivering while the chinking arrow sank into their heavy hide, procuring flowing sighs of fresh and eager blood, while their flesh-stripped bones were left to rot, and the remnants were nourishment for all thick moss.