He had his revenge, but he died--he died!
And the blame is mine--it was I--it was I!
And his spirit burns me; I die--I die!"
Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies,
She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.
But where is Wiwaste? Her swift feet flew
To the somber shades of the tangled thicket.
She hid in the copse like a wary cricket,
And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue.
Seeing unseen from her hiding place,
She sees them fly on the hurried chase;
She sees their dark eyes glance and dart,
As they pass and peer for a track or trace,
And she trembles with fear in the copse apart,
Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.
Weary the hours; but the sun at last
Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast
The wings of the spirits of night were spread
O'er the darkling woods and Wiwaste's head.
Then slyly she slipped from her snug retreat,
And guiding her course by Waziya's star,[62]
That shone through the shadowy forms afar,
She northward hurried with silent feet;
And long ere the sky was aflame in the east,
She was leagues from the spot of the fatal feast.
'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard,
And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower,
And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred.
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