But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.
The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163] for her butchered love,[164] the wife,
To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life.
I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,
Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165] a single stone;
I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,
I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.
But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,
And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166] the quivering life away—
Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,