Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,
Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,
Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.
First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;
“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—
A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of blood
On the white drapery he wore—his horse
Was riderless for ever. Michael turned
Fierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,
And tell your master he is now to pay