“Where hid my Venus?” Blanca cried: “Forbear!”—
“How now? By Heaven, this coyness fires me more;
“No dame of Normandy more beauteous fair,
“No Bretonne maiden binds more golden hair.”—
“Black,” quoth his comrade “is of Beauty’s flower
“For me the hue—so, lovingly we’ll share.
“Come, be a soldier’s bride—for half an hour.”
He grinned—both troopers laughed—the maids were in their power!
VII.
This Blanca saw, nor seemed she to resist,