But the dagger was in it, its beating was past.
Round the neck of the youth a light chain was entwining,
The dagger had cleft it, she joined it again.
One dark curl of his, one of her's like gold shining,
'They hoped this would part us, they hoped it in vain.
Race of dark hatred, the stern unforgiving.
Whose hearts are as cold as the steel which they wear.
By the blood of the dead, the despair of the living,
Oh, house of my kinsman, my curse be your share!'