rightened, cowering in the grass
In much bewilderment at what did pass,
Till thrice repeated noted not its sense.

She rose, and on the very brink defined,
Against the sky in silhouette outlined,
Erect before the Water-Demon stood.
Again those accents weird her wonder stirred,
And this is what the listening maiden heard:
"Thy fate, Winona, hangs on thine own choice
To scorn or heed the Water-Demon's voice.
Gone are thy pleasant days of maidenhood,
And evil hours draw nigh, but knowest thou not,
That what thou fleest is the common lot
Of all thy sisters? Thou must be the bride
Of one thou lovest not, must toil for him,
Watch for his coming, and endure his whim;
Must share his tent, and lying at his side
Weep for another till thine eyes grow dim.
And he, so fondly loved, will pass thee by
Indifferent with cold averted eye;
E'en he, whose wanton hands and hated arms
Have crushed the fair flower of thy maidenhood,
Will weary of thy swiftly-fading charms,
And seek another when thy beauty wanes.
Aha, thou shudderest; in thy tense veins,
Fierce and rebellious, leaps the mingling blood
Of countless warriors, high of soul and brave;
And would'st thou quench their spirit 'neath the wave?
Is Gray Cloud's life more dear to thee than thine?
The village sleeps, unguarded is his tent,
Thy knife is keen, and unto thee is lent
A spell to-night of potency malign.
Cradled in blissful dreams alone he lies,
And he shall stray so deep in sleep's dominions,
He would not waken though the rushing pinions
Of his own Thunder-Bird should shake the sky.
All freedom-loving spirits are with thee,
Strike hard and fear not as thou would'st be free;
Lest thine own hatred prove too weak a charm,
The Water-Demon's hate shall nerve thine arm."

The Water-Demon sank and disappeared,
And faint and fainter fell those accents weird,
Until the air was silent as the grave,
Still as December's crystal seal the wave.
Homeward again Winona took her way.
How changed in one short hour! no longer now
The song-birds singing at her heart, but there
A thousand gnashing furies made their lair,
And urged her on; her nearest pathway lay
Over a little hill, and on its brow
A group of trees, whereof each blackened bough
Bore up to heaven as if in protest mute
Its clustering load of ghastly charnel fruit,[12]
The swaddled forms of all the village dead--
Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,
The infant and the conjurer with his bag,
Peacefully rotting in