XL.

Then on the bed he prest the old man down; With sinewy knee upon his breast he lies, His struggles stifling with terrific frown, And with his sword-point blinded both his eyes! Dire were the wounds he made, and crimson flies The warm blood forth, yet save some groans of pain, Which spoke poor Pablo’s natural agonies, Nor shriek nor cry drew forth this deed of Cain, For Blanca’s sire no weak faintheartedness could stain!