Then Bras-de-fer and porter Pierre,
And José, the Spanish commissionaire,
Pressed up the polished stair.
The smith went down with a ball in his brain;
And, sheathed in the swarthy son of Spain,
The rapier snapped at its silver hilt;
Whilst Pierre dropped dead without a groan,
For the vase, with its lilies candled and gilt,
Lit on and splintered his frontal bone:
And the crowd once more recoiled, dismayed,
From that marble balustrade
Where he stood unarmed, alone.
He glanced at the clock above the stair:—
He had gained her time to fly;
His lips moved once with a silent prayer,
As he stood there to die.
Three pikes pierced his 'broidered vest,
And, clashing, met in his breast.
Little she recked that his life-blood flowed—
She had saved her jewel-case from the crowd!
