Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child With flashing eyes and weapons: matched with _them_, The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,-- The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild; And whom for this at last must we condemn? Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? XCIII. Their sabres glittered o'er her little head, Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead: When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he _said_, Because it might not solace "ears polite;"[463] But what he _did_, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. XCIV. One's hip he slashed, and split the other's shoulder, And drove them with their brutal yells to seek If there might be chirurgeons who could solder The wounds they richly merited,[464] and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek, Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb. XCV. And she was chill as they, and on her face A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race; For the same blow which laid her mother here Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear;[465] But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. XCVI. Just at this instant, while their eyes were fixed Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mixed With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protégée; while hers, transfixed With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase:--[466] XCVII. Up came John Johnson (I will not say _"Jack,"_ For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place On great occasions, such as an attack On cities, as hath been the present case): Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, Exclaiming--"Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar, That you and I will win St. George's collar.[467] XCVIII. "The Seraskier is knocked upon the head, But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din Of our artillery and his own: 't is said Our killed, already piled up to the chin, Lie round the battery; but still it batters, And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. XCIX.