He watched her glide reluctant from the hall, Then snatched an unsheathed sabre from the wall, One instant’s glance around the chamber cast, Where sleep so many that have slept their last; “Rouse ye, my mates!” Upspringing at the sound, From their rough couch the startled warriors bound, Noiseless they start, and all prepared they stand, Glances the knife and shines the ready brand, Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise, But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes. He stands their centre; round his form they wheel, A dusky phalanx, lit by gleams of steel, Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone His cheeks—while in his eye there coldly shone A wintry starlight—well ’tis understood, That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood. Proud he looked round, yet struggling with his pride Was something of regret he strove to hide, And low, though resolute, those accents clear, That fired the listener’s heart and thrilled his ear. “Comrades and friends—my trusty, fearless few, Still to yourselves and injured freedom true, Our foes are here—we are at last beset— Be calm, be firm, and we shall foil them yet. They think us helpless, hopeless, all undone, And scorn their conquest as too easy won; But can we hold our post—ere morn be gray We’ll change their triumph into blank dismay. Yet—for I scorn the hope one hour may blast, Nor speak through fear—this fight may prove our last; If one half hour unmastered we hold our post, All shall be well—if broken, all is lost. So friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare, This closing game twixt triumph and despair, One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh, We have been true, and as we lived we’ll die. Now then, all’s well—be resolute—be dumb, Let your good rifles speak—ah, hark! they come!” X.