Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
‘Halt!’—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. ‘Fire!’—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.
‘Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, But spare your country's flag,’ she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:
‘Who touches a hair of yon grey head Dies like a dog! March on!’ he said.
All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: