Now worn and spent and weary, Our force was scattered round, Some seeking for their comrades, Some seated on the ground, When sudden fell upon our ears A single trumpet’s sound. “Up! ready make for storming!” That speaks Moscoso near; He comes with stainless sabre, He comes with spotless spear; But stains of blood and spots of gore Await his weapons here. Soon, formed in four divisions, Around the order goes— “To front with battle-axes! No moment for repose. At signal of an arquebus, Rain on the gates your blows.” Not long that fearful crashing, The gates in splinters fall; And some, though sorely wounded, Climb o’er the crowded wall; No rampart’s height can keep them back, No danger can appall. Then redly rained the carnage— None asked for quarter there; Men fought with all the fury Born of a wild despair; And shrieks and groans and yells of hate Were mingled in the air. Four times they backward beat us, Four times our force returned; We quenched in bloody torrents The fire that in us burned; We slew who fought, and those who knelt With stroke of sword we spurned. And what are these new forces, With long, black, streaming hair? They are the singing maidens Who met us in the square; And now they spring upon our ranks Like she-wolves from their lair. Their sex no shield to save them, Their youth no weapon stayed; De Soto with his falchion A lane amid them made, And in the skulls of blooming girls Sank battle-axe and blade. Forth came a wingèd arrow, And struck our leader’s thigh; The man who sent it shouted, And looked to see him die; The wound but made the tide of rage Run twice as fierce and high. Then cried our stout camp-master, “The night is coming down; Already twilight darkness Is casting shadows brown; We would not lack for light on strife If once we burned the town.” With that we fired the houses; The ranks before us broke; The fugitives we followed, And dealt them many a stroke, While round us rose the crackling flame, And o’er us hung the smoke. And what with flames around them, And what with smoke o’erhead, And what with cuts of sabre, And what with horses’ tread, And what with lance and arquebus, The town was filled with dead. Six thousand of the foemen Upon that day were slain, Including those who fought us Outside upon the plain— Six thousand of the foemen fell, And eighty-two of Spain.