PROPHET. Nay--strike me not! I can explain it all!
It was a woman touched the Magic Bowl,
And broke the brooding spell.

TECUMSEH. Impostor! Slave! Why should I spare you?

[_Lifts his hand as if to strike._]

PROPHET. Stay, stay, touch me not!
One mother bore us in the self-same hour.

TECUMSEH. Then good and evil came to light together.
Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain!
Away! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief.

[_Exit the_ PROPHET _hastily_.]

Would that I were a woman, and could weep,
And slake hot rage with tears! O spiteful fortune,
To lure me to the limit of my dreams,
Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toil
Into the narrow compass of a night.
My brother's deep disgrace--myself the scorn
Of envious harriers and thieves of fame,
Who fain would rob me of the lawful meed
Of faithful services and duties done--
Oh, I could bear it all! But to behold
Our ruined people hunted to their graves--
To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame--