save dead, are seen in street or square.

CIII
Meanwhile the hands of Marganor, behind
His back, the fierce Marphisa had made fast,
And to Drusilla's maid the wretch consigned,
Well pleased that such a care on her was cast.
To burn the town 'twas afterwards designed,
Save it repented of its errors past,
Repealed the statute Marganor had made,
And a new law, imposed by her, obeyed.

CIV
Such end to compass is no hard assay;
For, besides fearing lest Marphisa yearn
To execute more vengeance, -- lest she say,
-- She one and all will slaughter and will burn, --
The townsmen all were advised to the sway
And cruel statute of that tyrant stern;
But did, as others mostly do, that best
Obey the master whom they most detest.

CV
Since none dares trust another, nor his will,
-- Out of suspicion -- to his comrades break,
They let him banish one, another kill,
From this his substance, that his honour take.
But the heart cries to Heaven, that here is still,
Till God and saints at length to vengeance wake:
Who, albeit they due punishment suspend,
By mighty pain the long delay amend.

CVI
The rabble, full of rage and enmity,
Now seeks the wretch with word and deed to grieve;
As, it is said, all strip the fallen tree,
Which from its roots and wintry winds upheave:
Let rulers in his sad example see,
Ill doers in the end shall ill receive.
To view fell Marganor's disastrous fall,
Fit penance for his sins, pleased great and small.

CVII
Many, of whom the sister had been slain,
The mother, or the daughter, or the wife,
Seeking no more their rebel wrath to rein,
Hurry, with their own hands to take his life;
And young Rogero and the damsels twain
Can scarce defend the felon in that strife;
Whom those illustrious three had doomed to die,
Mid trouble, fear, and lengthened agony.

CVIII
To the hag, who bore such hatred to that wight,
As woman to an enemy can bear,
They give their prisoner naked, bound so tight,
He will not at one shake the cordage tear;
And she, her pains and sorrow to requite,
Crimsons the wretch's body, here and there,
With a sharp goad, which, mid that village band,
A peasant churl had put into her hand.

CIX
Nor she the courier maid, nor they that ride
With her, aye mindful how they had been shent,
Now let their hands hang idle by their side;
No less than that old crone on vengean