And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited,[464] and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
XCV.
And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near