Noon
A paroxysm of despair seized him . He rode to the Gate St. Romain , and out of it into the country . Gallop , gallop -- the steed was good -- his best Arab , fleet and tireless . Noon overtook him -- few things else could -- still he galloped . The earth turned into a green ribbon under the flying hoofs , and there was relief in the speed . The air , whisked through , was soothing . At length he came to a wood , wild and interminable , Belgrade , though he knew it not , and dismounting by a stream , he spent the day there .