O, why did the lover so long delay?
He promised to come with the robins in May,
With the bridal gifts for the bridal day;
But the fair May mornings have slipped away,
And where is the lover--the brave Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina--
The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud,
And kindled revenge in his savage soul?
He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood,
But his angry spirit has brought her dole; [61]
It has entered her breast and her burning head,
And she raves and burns on her fevered bed.
"He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry.
"And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I!
I hated Wiwaste, for she was fair,
And my brave was caught in her net of hair.
I turned his love to a bitter hate;
I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride;
Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.
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.