He turned to the king, as he finished the verse, And threw on the table a heavy purse With a pair of dice; another, I trow, Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:—­ “’Tis mine; ’twas thine.  If the king would play, Perchance he’d find his revenge to-day.  Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin; I always repent—­unless I win.” Le jeu est fait.—­“Well thrown! eleven!  My purse is gone.—­Double-six, by heaven!”

  At this unlucky point in the game
  A herald was ushered in.  He came
  With a flag of truce, commissioned to say
  The garrison now were willing to lay
  The keys of the castle at his feet,
  If he’d let them go and let them eat: 
  They’d done their best; could do no more
  Than humbly wait the fortune of war
  And Richard’s word.  It came in tones
  That grated harshly:—­“D—­n the bones
  And double-six!  Marcadee, you’ve won.—­
  Take back my word to each mother’s son,
      And tell them Richard swore it: 
  Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall! 
  By the Holy Tomb, I’ll hang them all! 
  They’ve hung out so well behind their wall,
      They’ll hang out well before it.” 
  Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,
  Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;
  He laughed till he ached for want of breath: 
  If it lacked in life, it was full of death: 
  Like many, believing the next best thing
  To a joke with a point is a joke with a sting. 
  Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long
  Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,
  And bounded forward, axe on high,
  Circling the tents with his battle-cry,—­
  “Away! away! we shall win the day: 
      In the front of the fight you’ll find me: 
  The first to get in my spurs shall win,—­
      My boots to the wight behind me!”

* * * They have reached the moat; The draw is up, but a wooden float Is thrust across, and onward they run; The bank is gained and the barbican won; The outer gate goes down with a crash; Through the portcullis they madly dash, And with shouts of triumph they now assail The innermost gate.  The crushing hail Of rocks and beams goes through the mass, Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;—­ They falter, they waver.  A stalwart form Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:  ’Tis the Lion King!—­“How, now, ye knaves!  Do ye look for safety?  Find your graves!”—­ One blow to the left, one blow to the right,—­ Two recreants fall;—­no more of flight.  One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke, His curtle-axe rends the double oak.  Down shower the missiles;—­they fall in vain; They scatter like drops from the lion’s mane.  He is down,—­he is up;—­that right arm! how ’Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!  The barrier yields,—­it shivers,—­it falls.  “Huzza!  Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!  Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!  No quarter! remember——­Je—­su!