So at the bidding of our distraught lord We looked, and in the craven’s vaulted gloom I saw the maiden lying strangled there, A noose of linen twined about her neck; And hard beside her, clasping her cold form, Her lover lay bewailing his dead bride Death-wedded, and his father’s cruelty.
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the craven fellow turned and ran
I feel like a hunted, craven animal, which is exactly how the Empire sees me—how it sees all Scholars.