Page:Pictures In Rhyme.djvu/66

38 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:&mdash; 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&mdash; She had saved her jewel-case from the crowd!