14
THE LAST INCA.
Nor wisdom nor courage their swarms can evade;—
Set on! I absolve you! and God be your aid!
Set on! I absolve you! and God be your aid!
"'T is the hour!" cried Pizarro; and, boldest to dare,
The white scarf, his signal, waves ghostly in air!
Like thunder on Andes the fortress gun roars,
And horsemen and footmen spring fierce from the doors;
"Saint Jago and at them!" they shout as they come,
And nobles and people bewildered and dumb,
Unarmed and defenseless, are slaughtered like sheep
In the pit of the shambles! The dread horses leap
On their quivering forms as they cower from the stroke
Of the sabres that flash through the eddying smoke,
As they writhe with the balls from the muskets outpoured,—
And all in the name of the merciful Lord!
Yet still through the horror, the anguish, the stress,
Round their heaven-born Inca devoted they press;
At his feet lie his princes, the dying, the dead,
But others crowd eager to stand in their stead,
The white scarf, his signal, waves ghostly in air!
Like thunder on Andes the fortress gun roars,
And horsemen and footmen spring fierce from the doors;
"Saint Jago and at them!" they shout as they come,
And nobles and people bewildered and dumb,
Unarmed and defenseless, are slaughtered like sheep
In the pit of the shambles! The dread horses leap
On their quivering forms as they cower from the stroke
Of the sabres that flash through the eddying smoke,
As they writhe with the balls from the muskets outpoured,—
And all in the name of the merciful Lord!
Yet still through the horror, the anguish, the stress,
Round their heaven-born Inca devoted they press;
At his feet lie his princes, the dying, the dead,
But others crowd eager to stand in their stead,
