XII. Gilbert looked round—oh now no more they turn, With answering glances, to his looks that burn. Wounded and bleeding, scarce the nerveless hand Can now sustain the deeply reddened brand, Yet, half unconscious, round his form they close— Alas! weak fence are they from savage foes. Around the room his gaze uncertain strayed, Till on the chamber-door where Clara staid It rested for a moment—in his heart Some half-forbidden purpose seemed to start; But in that moment, when suspended strife Gave time for thoughts to rise of death and life, Stepped from the opposing ranks Gleneden’s chief, And thus in haughty tones demanded brief: “Now, Gilbert, yield; thy short success is past, Thy king compels thy rebel knee at last. Justice or mercy, choose thee which we deal, Thy monarch’s pardon or his vengeful steel!” Flashed Gilbert’s eye, and curled his lip with scorn— “Remorseless caitiff, to thy land forsworn, False to all ties, in every treason dyed, Here with thy country’s fellest foes allied, Darest thou to brand me rebel? Thank thy fear, And thy less guilty tools that guard thee here, That long ere now my hand has not repaid My wrongs—and hers—and my poor land betrayed! Thy mercies too—ay, prate of such to me! I know them well—the halter and the tree! Thou, loathed by all—by every heart accurst— But words are idle—do thy best—or worst! Dear friends, once more, one closing stroke with me, For home, for Liberty—we will be free!” Hark! was’t a wandering echo that brought back That shout returning on its airy track? Do my ears mock me—heard I not the sound Of trampling hoofs that shake the solid ground? Wildly they meet—that final strife shall close On none but victors and their silent foes. XIII.