Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout!
Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down
With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush
And trampling-on of furious multitudes?
Gon. Thou’rt silent!—See’st thou more? My
soul grows dark.
Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea,
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn