"Wakâwa,--my Father! he lies,--he lies!
Wiwâstè is pure as the fawn unborn;
Lead me back to the feast or Wiwâstè dies!"
But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn,
And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.

Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud,
Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud;
But he held his wrath and he spoke with care:
"Wiwâstè is young; she is proud and fair,
But she may not boast of the virgin snows.
The Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing;
How durst she enter the Virgins' ring?
The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare;
She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows."

She clutched her hair in her clinchèd hand;
She stood like a statue bronzed and grand;
_Wakân-deè_[39] flashed in her fiery eyes;
Then swift as the meteor cleaves the skies--
Nay, swift as the fiery _Wakinyan's_[32] dart,
She snatched the knife from the warrior's belt,
And plunged it clean to the polished hilt--
With a deadly cry--in the villain's heart.
Staggering he clutched the air and fell;
His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand,
And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand.

Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell.
Swift as the doe's Wiwâstè's feet