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Could the English bring their numbers, for the way By upward steps presented from the fort A narrow ascent, where one alone could meet The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud, Though useless numbers were in that strait path, Save by assault unceasing to outlast A single warrior, who at length must sink Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone Succumb. There was amid the garrison A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought, And good renown for feats of arms achieved Had gain'd in that day's victory. For him His countrymen made way, and he his lance Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived The intent, and, as the weapon touch'd his shield, Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft; Then plucking from the shield the severed head, He threw it back. With wary bend the foe Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon flew: Full on the corselet of a meaner man It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs, In vital play distended, to the heart Roll back their brighten'd tide: from the deep wound The red blood gush'd; prone on the steps he fell, And in the strong, convulsive grasp of death Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name The soldier died; and yet he left behind One who then never said her daily prayers Of him forgetful; who to every tale Of the distant war lending an eager ear. Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door The wretched one shall sit, and with fix'd eye Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope, Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well, Feel life itself with that false hope decay; And wake at night from miserable dreams Of his return, and weeping o'er her babe, Too surely think that soon that fatherless child Must of its mother also be bereft.

Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced, Like one who disregarded in his strength The enemy's vantage, destined to abide That rashness dearly. Conrade stood prepared, Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe Uplifted. Where the buckler was beneath Rounded, the falchion struck, a bootless blow To pierce its plated folds; more forcefully Full on his crested helm the battle-axe Descended, driving in both crest and crown; From the knight's eyes, at that death-stroke, the blood Started; with blood the chambers of the brain Were fill'd; his breastplate with convulsive throes Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize At many a tournament had borne away In mimic war; happy, if so content With bloodless glory, he had never left The mansion of his sires. But terrified The English stood, nor durst adventure now Near that death-doing foe. Amid their host Was one who well could from the stubborn yew Send his sharp shafts; well skill'd in wood-craft he, Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun. He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string, And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew, It pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain, The breastplate: while he fitted to the bow A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice, Shouting for timely succor to secure The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call Unheard, nor unobey'd; responsive shouts Announced assistance nigh; the Orleanites From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall Sped to support him; cheering was the sound Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew His falchion forth, and down the steps he went. Then terror seized the English, for their foes Press'd through the open portal, and the sword Of Conrade was among them making way. Not to the Trojans when their ships were lost More dreadful the Rutilian hero seem'd, Then hoping well to right himself in arms; Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont, Clad in his dragon mail. Like some tall rock, Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood, When, drawing courage from despair, the foe Renew'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower, Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast, As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew, Full on his helm a weighty English sword Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath, When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground, Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself To the foe opposing with her herald's aid, For they alone, following the adventurous steps Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced, Shielded him while with eager hand he drew The bolts: the gate turn'd slow; forth leapt the chief, And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains That held on high the bridge: down fell the bridge Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in; And from their walls the Orleanites with shouts And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John The lilies wave. "On to Fort London! on!" Cried Conrade; "Xaintrailles! while the day endures Once more advance to certain victory! Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring The battering-ram against their gates and walls