And still she numbered William ’mongst the slain,
And every cannon with terrific boom
That maid so bold before made shake amain,
As were his breast the target. Rolled the drum;
“We meet to-morrow.” Ah, that morrow ne’er may come!
VII.
Dire was the chill that fell on Blanca’s soul,
And oft she sighed for Isidora’s ear,
To pour her woes and hear those lips console—
Her foster-sister more than sister dear!