HEBE
Of the cage's door, and headlong flung
Sir Marco, ere he could breathe, the dolt!
Plump on the lion he bounced, and fell
Beyond, and Hebe leapt for him there,—
No need for their lady's voice to tell
The work in hand for that ready pair.
They say one would n't have cared to see
The group commingled, man and beast,
Or to hear the shrieks and roars,—all three
One red, the feasters and the feast!
Guns, pistols, blazed, till the lion sprawled,
Shot dead, but Hebe held to her prey
And drank his blood, while keepers bawled
And their hot irons made yon scars that day.
But the woman? True, I had forgot:
She never flinched at the havoc made,
Nor gave one cry, but there on the spot
Drove to the heart her poniard-blade,
Straight, like a man, and fell, nor stirred
Again;—so that fine pair were dead;
One lied, and the other kept her word,—
And death pays debts, when all is said.
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