VI.

But Christian,[401] of a higher order, stood Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 140 Silent, and sad, and savage,--with the trace Of passion reeking from his clouded face; Till lifting up again his sombre eye, It glanced on Torquil, who leaned faintly by. "And is it thus?" he cried, "unhappy boy! And thee, too, _thee_--my madness must destroy!" He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood; Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, And shrunk as fearful of his own caress; 150 Enquired into his state: and when he heard The wound was slighter than he deemed or feared, A moment's brightness passed along his brow, As much as such a moment would allow. "Yes," he exclaimed, "we are taken in the toil, But not a coward or a common spoil; Dearly they have bought us--dearly still may buy,-- And I must fall; but have _you_ strength to fly? 'Twould be some comfort still, could you survive; Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 160 Oh! for a sole canoe! though but a shell, To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell! For me, my lot is what I sought; to be, In life or death, the fearless and the free."