sent forth a doleful howl
At intervals; but worse than all the rest,
That dreadful drum still beating in her breast,
As furious war-drums in the scalp-dance beat
To the mad circling of delirious feet.

[Illustration: "THE GIANT CLIFFS OF RED-WING SPREADING BACK."]

Early next morning, as the first faint rays
Of sunlight through the rustling lindens played,
Two children sent to seek the conjurer's aid,
Gazed on the sight, with horror and amaze,
Of Gray Cloud's lifeless body rolled in blood.
Fast through the village spread the news, and stirred
With mingled fear and wonder all who heard.
The oracles were baffled and dismayed,
And spoke with muffled tones and looks of dread:
"Some envious foeman lurking in the wood,
With medicine more strong than his," they said,
"Stole in last night and gave the fatal wound."
The warriors scoured the country miles around,
Seeking for sign or trail, but naught they found:
The murderer left behind no clue or trace
More than a vampire's flight through darkling space.

The Raven with a stoic calmness heard
Of Gray Cloud's death, nor showed by look or word
The wrath that to its depth his being stirred.
Winona heard the news with false surprise,
As if just roused from sleep she rubbed her eyes;
When she arose her knees like aspens shook,
But this she quelled and forced a tranquil look
To feign the calmness that her soul forsook.
And when the mourning wail rose on the air,
Winona's voice was heard commingling there.
She gathered with the other maidens where,
On a rude bier, the conjurer's body lay
Adorned and decked in funeral array.
She flung a handful of her sable hair,
And wept such tears above the painted clay[13]
As weeps a youthful widow, only heir,
Over the coffin of a millionaire.

Moons waxed to fullness and to sickles waned.
The gossips still conversed with bated breath.
The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud's death,
Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remained
A blighting shadow o'er the village spread.
But youthful spirits are invincible,
Nor fear nor superstition long can quell
The bubbling flow of that perennial well;
And so the youths and maidens soon regained
The wonted gayety that late had fled.
All save Winona, in whose face and mien,
Unto the careless eye, no change was seen;
But one that noted might sometimes espy
A furtive fear that shot across her eye,
As in a forest, 'thwart some bit of blue,
Darts a rare bird that shuns the hunter's view.
Her laugh, though