Then swift caught the huntress her bow;
from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow.
Up-leaped the red roebuck and fled,
but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet,
And he fell in the oak thicket dead.
On the trail ran the eager Winona.
Half-famished the raw flesh she ate.
To the hungry maid sweet was her supper
Then swift through the night ran her feet,
and she trailed the sleek roebuck behind her;
And the guide of her steps was a star--
the cold-glinting star of _Waziya_[BO]--
Over meadow and hilltop afar, on the way
to the lodge of her father.
But hark! on the keen frosty air
wind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray-wolves!
And nearer,--still nearer!--the blood
of the deer have they scented and follow;
Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood,
dash the pack on the trail of Winona.
Swift she speeds with her burden,
but swift on her track fly the minions of famine;
Now they yell on the view from the drift,
in the reeds at the marge of the meadow;
Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes,
for they see on the hill-side their supper;
The dark forest echoes their cries,
but her heart is the heart of a warrior.
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