(NB O.C. : Inspired by a historical incident during Sir Francis Drake`expedition) They carried him out on the barren sandwhere the rebel captains died;Where the grim gray rotting gibbets standas Magellan reared them on the strand,And the gulls that haunt the lonesome landwail to the lonely tide.Drake faced them all like a lion at bay,with his lion head upflung:"Dare ye my word of law defy,to say this traitor shall not die?"And his captains dared not meet his eyebut each man held his tongue.Solomon Kane stood forth alone,grim man of sober face:"Worthy of death he may well be,but the trial ye held was mockery,"Ye hid your spite in a travestywhere justice hid her face."More of the man had ye been, on deckyour sword to cleanly draw"In forthright fury from its sheathand openly cleave him to the teeth --"Rather than slink and hide beneatha hollow word of the law."Hell rose in the eyes of Francis Drake."Puritan knave!" swore he."Headsman! Give him the axe instead!He shall strike off yon traitor's head!"Solomon folded his arms and said,darkly and somberly:"I am no slave for your butcher's work.""Bind him with triple strands!"Drake roared and the men obeyed,Hesitantly, as if afraid,But Kane moved not as they took his bladeand pinioned his iron hands.They bent the doomed man over to his knees,the man who was to die;They saw his lips in a strange smile bend,one last long look they saw him send,At Drake his judge and his one time friendwho dared not meet his eye.The axe flashed silver in the sun,a red arch slashed the sand;A voice cried out as the head fell clear,and the watchers flinched in sudden fear,Though 'twas but a sea bird wheeling nearabove the lonely strand."This be every traitor's end!"Drake cried, and yet again.Slowly his captains turned and wentand the admiral's stare was elsewhere bentThan where the cold scorn with anger blentin the eyes of Solomon Kane.Night fell on the crawling waves;the admiral's door was closed;Solomon lay in the stenching hold;his irons clashed as the ship rolled.And his guard, grown weary and overbold,lay down his pipe and dozed.He woke with a hand at his corded throatthat gripped him like a vise;Trembling he yielded up the key,and the somber Puritan stood free,His cold eyes gleaming murderouslywith the wrath that is slow to rise.Unseen, to the admiral's door,went Solomon Kane from the guard,Through the night and silence of the ship,the guard's keen dagger in his grip;No man of the dull crew saw him slipthrough the door unbarred.Drake at the table sat alone,his face sunk in his hands;He looked up, as from sleeping --but his eyes were blank with weepingAs if he saw not, creeping,death's swiftly flowing sands.He reached no hand for gun or bladeto halt the hand of Kane,Nor even seemed to hear or see,lost in black mists of memory,Love turned to hate and treachery,and bitter, cankering pain.A moment Solomon Kane stood there,the dagger poised before,As a condor stoops above a bird,and Francis Drake spoke not nor stirredAnd Kane went forth without a wordand closed the cabin door.