When he heard the whoop of his enemies. 
Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdee
And each for the scalp of a warrior slain,
When down on his camp from the northern plain,
With their murder-cries rode the bloody Cree.[35]
But never the stain of an infant slain,
Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain,
Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hohe. 
A mountain bear to his enemies,
To his friends like the red fawn’s dappled form;
In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas——­
In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. 
His fame in the voice of the winds went forth
From his hunting grounds in the happy North,
And far as the shores of the Great Mede [36]
The nations spoke of the brave Chaske.

Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud,
Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud,
When the chief to his lodge led the brave Hohe,
And Wiwaste smiled on the tall Chaske. 
Away he strode with a sullen frown,
And alone in his teepee he sat him down. 
From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole,
And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. 
But the eagle eyes of the Harpstina
The clouded face of the warrior saw. 
Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: 
“Mah-pi-ya Duta—­his face is sad;
And why is the warrior so glum and grave? 
For the fair Wiwaste is gay and glad;
She will sit in the teepee the live-long day,
And laugh with her lover—­the brave Hohe
Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh? 
There are fairer maidens than she, and proud
Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud. 
And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes;
His tongue is swift, but his words are lies;
And the proud Mah-pi-ya will surely find
That Wakawa’s promise is hollow wind. 
Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo
I heard the voice of the Little Crow;
But the fox is sly and his words were low. 
But I heard her answer her father—­’Never! 
I will stain your knife in my heart’s red blood,
I will plunge and sink in the sullen river,
Ere I will be wife to the dark Red Cloud!’
Then he spake again, and his voice was low,
But I heard the answer of Little Crow: 
’Let it be as you will, for Wakawa’s tongue
Has spoken no promise—­his lips are slow,
And the love of a father is deep and strong.’

“Mah-pi-ya Duta, they scorn your love,
But the false chief covets the warrior’s gifts. 
False to his promise the fox will prove,
And fickle as snow in Wo-ka-da-wee, [37]
That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts,
Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. 
Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me. 
There are fairer birds in the bush than she,
And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud’s wife. 
Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft,
When fairer and truer than she are left,
That love Red Cloud as they love their life? 
Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me. 
I love him well—­I have loved him long: 
A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong,
And a love-lorn brave is a scorn to see.