XXXIX.

Terrific Pablo’s triumph as he cried:-- “No, ruffians, no; thank Heaven, they are not your’s, “My daughters! ’Tis God’s hand, to crush your pride, “To San Sebastian hath removed the lures “That brought ye hither, worse than Godless Moors!” “Ha, say you so?” quoth Jules, “_pardieu_, ’tis he, “The same who ’neath the oak, ’mongst Vascon boors, “My bridle cut and made my steed to flee. “Dog! with those eyes to do the like no more thou’lt see!”