He scarce had finished, when a rush,
Like partridge through the stubble, broke,
And armed men trod down the brush;
A harsh voice, trembling in the hush,
As it must either stab or choke,
Imperiously spoke:

“Ye conquered men of Achter Kill,
Whose farms by loyal toil ye got,
True Dutchmen! give this traitor will—
And he is yours to loose or kill—
All that ye have he will allot
Anew—field, cradle, cot.

“Years past, beyond our Southern bounds,
On State's commission sent by me,
He mapped the English papists' grounds,
And like a Judas, o'er our wounds,
Our raiment parted openly:
This is the man ye see!

“Yet, followed by my sleepless age,
Fast as he rode my pigeons sped—
Straight as the ravens from their cage,
Straight as the arrows of my rage,
Straight as the meteor overhead
That strikes a traitor dead.”

They bound Lord Herman fast as hate,
And bore him o'er to Staten Isle;
Behind him closed the postern gate,
And round him pitiless as fate,
Closed moat and palisade and pile:
“Thou diest at morn,” they smile.