But Blanca’s sire with dexterous weapon cut The Frenchman’s rein, and pricked his foaming steed. Unchecked, the charger instant wheeled about, And from the battle fled at utmost speed, The bridle Jules deserting in his need. Shouted the enraged hussar, and spurred, and cursed, But faster flew the horse from guidance freed. The troop soon followed--of the fray the worst Was theirs--and from the Basques the cheer of victory burst. XVIII. No tongue may tell the transport of delight, That hailed this triumph of their patriot arms. A troop from fair Guerníca marched ere night For San Sebastian, amid War’s alarms To prove the spirit which the Vascon warms. And Blanca and her blithe barqueras rowed Once more to aid the siege with Hebe charms, While Carlos to whose arm she safety owed Her shallop bore to San Sebastian, his abode:-- XIX. “Now thus,” she said, “to Isidora speak,-- Though noblest maid, my foster-sister dear-- Tell her my tongue to express my love is weak, And this memorial wet with many a tear. For dire to think how oft I am so near, But she within and I without the wall Beleaguered;--you, Don Carlos, need not fear To enter seaward, but the haughty Gaul ’Gainst Basque barquera soon would hurl the vengeful ball.” XX. Then from her beauteous breast the maid drew forth A silken banneret of pigmy size, Yet truly figuring--thence was all its worth-- The standard proud of Spain, whose castles rise With lions rampant to the gazer’s eyes. And in the centre, broidered all blood-red Showed the French eagle--arrow-pierced he lies, Gasping in death, the plumes rent from his head: “Give this to Isidor,” at parting, “this,” she said. XXI. Dark was the night--the horizon pitchy black, As Carlos with the pass-word reached the town, And joyous strolled, while War’s dread fire was slack, With lovely Isidor the rampart down. More deep ’neath starry pall ne’er fell Night’s frown, Nor sank repose on Nature and on man. But hark the rattling musketry, see crown Each sharp discharge its flash--ere death brief span. Homeward, poor maiden lorn, sweet Isidora ran! XXII. ’Twas gallant Rey, who made a night-sortie-- Last effort tried ere come the dire assault. Our piquets on the Isthmus slaughtered see, Ta’en by surprise or ere they can cry Halt! Loud rose the Frenchmen’s _En avant!_ At fault, Our sentries for a time unaided bleed, The deadly death-tubes rending the black vault; But soon a furious contest raged indeed-- Our startled piquets rush, their firelocks flash with speed. XXIII.