A silken banneret of pigmy size,
Yet truly figuring—thence was all its worth—
The standard proud of Spain, whose castles rise
With lions rampant to the gazer’s eyes.
And in the centre, broidered all blood-red
Showed the French eagle—arrow-pierced he lies,
Gasping in death, the plumes rent from his head:
“Give this to Isidor,” at parting, “this,” she said.
XXI.
Dark was the night—the horizon pitchy black,