"Now, yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"-- "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! 405 Let recreant yield, who fears to die." --Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 410 Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round. Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 415 Through bars of brass and triple steel!-- They tug, they strain! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed His knee was planted in his breast; 420 His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright! But hate and fury ill supplied 425 The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 430 Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close, 435 But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. XVII