THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
103
The darkness favours her escape,
She holds her breath—a muffled shape
Glides slow and silent through the shade
To where the sleeping chief is laid;
Then listens, but there is no sound,
Then flings a cautious glance around;
Then glitters the assasin brand,
She sees him raise his desperate hand!
She flings herself before the foe,
Too late to ward, she meets the blow.
Wild on the air her death shriek rings,
Leoni from his slumber springs,
And page and guard attendant nigh,
Come hurrying at that fearful cry.
Leoni looks not on his foe,
Only he sees the life-blood flow
Of her it is too late to know.
