Close as the ring of the clouds that menace the moon with death,

At once they circled her round. Her bright breast panted for breath.

With only her own wild glory keeping the wolves at bay,

While the river of parting whispered,

Whispered away to the darkness,

She looked in their eyes for a moment, and strove for a word to say.

Teach me, O my lover!—She set her foot on the dead.

She laughed on the painted faces with their rings of yellow and red,—

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38

I thank you, wolves of the Mohawk, for a woman’s hands might fail.—

—And the river of vengeance chuckled,

Chuckled away to the darkness,—

But ye have killed where I hunted. I have come to the end of my trail.

I thank you, braves of the Mohawk, who laid this thief at my feet.

He tore my heart out living, and tossed it his dogs to eat.

Ye have taught him of death in a moment, as he taught me of love in a day.

—And the river of passion deepened,

Deepened and rushed to the darkness.—

And yet may a woman requite you, and set your feet on the way.

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