But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack
The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew:
He call'd his slave to bring an ample sack
Wherein a woman might be poked—a few
Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black
At this sad order; but their slaveships knew
When any dared demur, his sword so bending
Cut off the "head and front of their offending."
XI.
For Ali had a sword, much like himself,