Our warriors struck his trail by chance, and found
His tent close by the Wabash, where he lay
With sprained ankle, foodless and alone.
He had a book of pictures with him there
Of Long-Knife forts, encampments and their chiefs--
Most recognizable; so, reasoning thence,
Our warriors took him for a daring spy,
And brought him here, and tied him to the stake.
Then he declared he was a Saganash--
No Long-Knife he! but one who loved our race,
And would adopt our ways--with honeyed words,
Couched in sweet voice, and such appealing eyes
That Iena, our niece--who listened near--
Believing, rushed, and cut him from the tree.
I hate his smiles, soft ways, and smooth-paced tread,
And would, ere now, have killed him but for her;
For ever since, unmindful of her race,
She has upheld him, and our matrons think
That he has won her heart.

TECUMSEH. But not her hand! This cannot be, and I must
see to it:
Red shall not marry white--such is our law.
But graver matters are upon the wing,
Which I must open to you. Know you, then,
The nation that has doomed our Council-Fires--
Splashed with our blood--will on its Father turn,
Once more, whose lion-paws, stretched o'er the sea,
Will sheathe their nails in its unnatural tides,
Till blood will flow, as free as pitch in spring,