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XXVII
Still the old man stood erect,
And Alp`s career a moment check`d.
"Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take,
For thine own, thy daughter`s sake."
"Never, renegado, never!
Though the life of thy gift would last for ever."
"Francesca! — oh, my promised bride:
Must she too perish by thy pride?"
"She is safe." — "Where? where?" — "In heaven;
From whence thy traitor soul is driven —
Far from thee, and undefiled."
Grimly then Minotti smiled,
As he saw Alp staggering bow
Before his words, as with a blow.
"O God! when died she?" — "Yesternight —
Nor weep I for her spirit`s flight:
None of my pure race shall be
Slaves to Mohammed and thee —
Come on!" That challenge is in vain —
Alp`s already with the slain!
While Minotti`s words were wreaking
More revenge in bitter speaking
Than his falchion`s point had found,
Had the time allow`d to wound,
From within the neighbouring porch
Of a long-defended church,
Where the last and desperate few
Would the failing fight renew,
The sharp shot dash`d Alp to the ground;
Ere an eye could view the wound
That crash`d through the brain of the infidel,
Round he spun, and down he fell;
A flash like fire within his eyes
Blazed, as he bent no more to rise,
And then eternal darkness sunk
Through all the palpitating trunk;
Nought of life left, save a quivering
Where his limbs were slightly shivering:
They turn`d him on his back; his breast
And brow were stain`d with gore and dust,
And through his lips the life-blood oozed,
From its deep veins lately loosed;
But in his pulse there was no throb,
Nor on his lips one dying sob;
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath
Heralded his way to death:
Ere his very thought could pray,
Unanel`d he pass`d away,
Without a hope from mercy`s aid, —
To the last — a Renegade.
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