XXXI.
’Twas Blanca! she had heard too soon, too soon
Of William’s fall, and sought his corse, I ween.
As girt with thunder-clouds the silver Moon,
So shone the maiden in that direful scene.
But, ah, her cheek had lost its rosy sheen,
Glared wild her eye, her tresses loosely fell.
With frantic haste and Pythonissa’s mien,
She tears away the corses where they dwell
In gory heaps that prove they stood the tempest well.