The Khalif lightened on them with quick flame. Harsh though she was, I sorrowed for the crone, For she was old, a woman, and alone, And came, in age, upon disgrace through me; I know not what disgrace, I did not see Those crones again, I doubt not they were whipt For letting us escape them while they slept. Perhaps they killed the sentry. Who can tell? The devil ever keeps the laws in hell. * * * * * They dragged them out to justice one by one. However bitter was the justice done, I doubt not they were thankful to be quit (At cost of some few pangs) the fear of it. Then our turn came. The Khalif’s fury raged Because our eyes had seen those women caged, Because our Christian presence had defiled The Women’s House, and somehow had beguiled A woman-slave, his victim, out of it, Against all Moorish law and Holy Writ. If we had killed his son it had been less. * * * * * He rose up in his place and rent his dress. “Let them be ganched upon the hooks,” he cried, “Throughout to-day, but not till they have died. Then gather all the slaves, and flay these three Alive, before them, that the slaves may see What comes to dogs who try to get away. So, ganch the three.” * * * * * Then Gerard answered: “Stay. Before you fling us to the hooks, hear this. There are two laws, and men may go amiss Either by breaking or by keeping one. There is man’s law by which man’s work is done. Your galleys rowed, your palace kept in state, Your victims ganched or headed on the gate, And accident has bent us to its yoke. * * * * * “We break it: death; but it is better broke. * * * * * “You know, you Khalif, by what death you reign, What force of fraud, what cruelty of pain, What spies and prostitutes support your power, And help your law to run its little hour: We, who are but ourselves, defy it all. * * * * *