Till dead[644] at his feet he the Count would lay low.
He searched France from north to south,[645] England went through,[646]
And at last of his old foe discovered a clue:
He found him disguised both in feature and name;—
Come, Michel, what ails you? Your drinking’s too tame.
Here, fill up your goblet;[647] I’ll give you a toast;[648]
Dios! man; what a face! It would frighten a ghost;
Here’s success to all men who the life blood may spill
Of such as the Count and his wife! But sit still,[649]
And wait till my narrative ends. ’Tis a queer