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     From the grasp of the soldier
The Jesuit broke,
     Half in scorn, half in sorrow,
He smiled as he spoke:

“No wolf, Lord of Estienne,
     Has ravaged thy hall,
But thy red-handed rival,
     With fire, steel, and ball!
On an errand of mercy
     I hitherward came,
While the walls of thy castle
     Yet spouted with flame.

Pentagoet's dark vessels
     Were moored in the bay,
Grim sea-lions, roaring
     Aloud for their prey. “
‘But what of my lady?’
     Cried Charles of Estienne.
” On the shot-crumbled turret
     Thy lady was seen:

Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,
     Her hand grasped thy pennon,
While her dark tresses swayed
     In the hot breath of cannon.
But woe to the heretic,
     Evermore woe!
When the son of the church
     And the cross is his foe!

“In the track of the shell,
     In the path of the ball,

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