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Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high, It is their fiercest enemy; He of the charm'd and deadly steel, Whose stroke was never known to heal,— He of the sword sworn not to spare,— She flung her down in her despair!

The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood That cost so little to be won,— He strikes,—the work of death is done!