Dire were the wounds he made, and crimson flies
The warm blood forth, yet save some groans of pain,
Which spoke poor Pablo’s natural agonies,
Nor shriek nor cry drew forth this deed of Cain,
For Blanca’s sire no weak faintheartedness could stain!
XLI.
Then bound the villain both his hands and feet,
And while its master helpless nought did say,
Ransacked the house for all of wine or meat,
Or forage that within its precincts lay,