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     His lady kept watch,
For his coming again.

O'er the Isle of the Pheasant
     The morning sun shone,
On the plane-trees which shaded
     The shores of St. John.
“Now, why from yon battlements
     Speaks not my love!
Why waves there no banner
     My fortress above?”

Dark and wild, from his deck
     St. Estienne gazed about,
On fire-wasted dwellings,
     And silent redoubt;
From the low, shattered walls
     Which the flame had o'errun,
There floated no banner,
     There thundered no gun!

But beneath the low arch
     Of its doorway there stood
A pale priest of Rome,
     In his cloak and his hood.
With the bound of a lion,
     La Tour sprang to land,
On the throat of the Papist
     He fastened his hand.

“Speak, son of the Woman
     Of scarlet and sin!
What wolf has been prowling
     My castle within?”

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La Tour (1)
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