‘Young man, your sword;’ so Lambro once more said: Juan replied, ‘Not while this arm is free.’ The old man’s cheek grew pale, but not with dread, And drawing from his belt a pistol, he Replied, ‘Your blood be then on your own head.’ Then look’d dose at the flint, as if to see ’Twas fresh—for he had lately used the lock— And next proceeded quietly to cock. It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. Lambro presented, and one instant more Had stopp’d this Canto, and Don Juan’s breath, When Haidee threw herself her boy before; Stern as her sire: ‘On me,’ she cried, ‘let death Descend—the fault is mine; this fatal shore He found—but sought not. I have pledged my faith; I love him—I will die with him: I knew Your nature’s firmness—know your daughter’s too.’ A minute past, and she had been all tears, And tenderness, and infancy; but now She stood as one who champion’d human fears— Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo’d the blow; And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, She drew up to her height, as if to show A fairer mark; and with a fix’d eye scann’d Her father’s face—but never stopp’d his hand. He gazed on her, and she on him; ’twas strange How like they look’d! the expression was the same; Serenely savage, with a little change In the large dark eye’s mutual-darted flame; For she, too, was as one who could avenge, If cause should be—a lioness, though tame. Her father’s blood before her father’s face Boil’d up, and proved her truly of his race. I said they were alike, their features and Their stature, differing but in sex and years; Even to the delicacy of their hand There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; And now to see them, thus divided, stand In fix’d ferocity, when joyous tears And sweet sensations should have welcomed both, Show what the passions are in their full growth. The father paused a moment, then withdrew His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, And looking on her, as to look her through, ‘Not I,’ he said, ‘have sought this stranger’s ill; Not I have made this desolation: few Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; But I must do my duty—how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past. ‘Let him disarm; or, by my father’s head, His own shall roll before you like a ball!’ He raised his whistle, as the word he said, And blew; another answer’d to the call, And rushing in disorderly, though led, And arm’d from boot to turban, one and all, Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; He gave the word,—‘Arrest or slay the Frank.’