as meekly she bent o’er the image. 
“O Christ of the Whiteman,” she prayed,
          “lead the feet of my brave to Kathaga;
Send a good spirit down to my aid,
          or the friend of the White Chief will perish.” 
Then a smile on her wan features played,
          and she lifted her pale face and chanted

“E-ye-he-kta!  E-ye-he-kta! 
He-kta-ce; e-ye-ce-quon. 
Mi-Wamdee-ska, he-he-kta,
He-kta-ce, e-ye-ce-quon,

    Mi-Wamdee-ska.”

[TRANSLATON]

He will come; he will come;
He will come, for he promised. 
My White Eagle, he will come;
He will come, for he promised——­

    My White Eagle.

Thus sadly she chanted, and lo—­
          allured by her sorrowful accents—­
From the dark covert crept a red roe
          and wonderingly gazed on Winona. 
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. 
From its sheath snatched Winona her knife,
          and a leg from the roebuck she severed;
With the carcass she ran for her life,—­
          to a low-branching oak ran the maiden;
Round the deer’s neck her head-strap[BP] was tied;
          swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree;
Quick her burden she drew to her side,
          and higher she clomb on the branches,
While the maddened wolves battled and bled,
          dealing death o’er the leg to each other;
Their keen fangs devouring the dead,—­
          yea, devouring the flesh of the living,
They raved and they gnashed and they growled,
          like