“’Twas with my carbine she my comrade smote.
“Now will I rifle her—she’ll now obey
“My wishes, while I grasp her soft, white throat.
“Dame! a French bastard soon her tapering waist shall bloat!”
XXXIX.
Terrific Pablo’s triumph as he cried:—
“No, ruffians, no; thank Heaven, they are not your’s,
“My daughters! ’Tis God’s hand, to crush your pride,
“To San Sebastian hath removed the lures
“That brought ye hither, worse than Godless Moors!”