Their faces turned to the Sacred East.[21]
In the polished bowls lies the golden maize,
And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays. 
For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide—­
The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,
The purple plumes of the prairie’s pride,[49]
The wild, uncultured asphodel,
And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet
That the Virgins call “Let-me-not forget,”
In gay festoons and garlands twine
With the cedar sprigs[50] and the wildwood vine. 
So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,
And none but a virgin may enter there;
And clad is each in a scarlet vest,
And a fawn-skin frock to the brown calves bare. 
Wild rose-buds peep from their flowing hair,
And a rose half blown on the budding breast;
And bright with the quills of the porcupine
The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.

Hand in hand round the feast they dance,
And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon,
And never a pause or a dissonance
In the merry dance or the merry tune. 
Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon,
When she peeps o’er the hills of the dewy east,
Wiwaste sings at the Virgins’ Feast;
And bright is the light in her luminous eyes;
They glow like the stars in the winter skies;
And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart
Their golden blush to her cheeks impart—­
Her cheeks half-hid in her midnight hair. 
Fair is her form—­as the red fawn’s fair—­
And long is the flow of her raven hair;
It falls to her knees and it streams on the breeze
Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.

Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair,
For none but a virgin may enter there. 
’Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing;
Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare,
If a tarnished maiden should enter there. 
And her that enters the Sacred Ring
With a blot that is known or a secret stain
The warrior who knows is bound to expose,
And lead her forth from the ring again. 
And the word of a brave is the fiat of law;
For the Virgins’ Feast is a sacred thing. 
Aside with the mothers sat Harpstina;
She durst not enter the Virgins’ ring.

Round and round to the merry song
The maidens dance in their gay attire,
While the loud Ho-Ho’s of the tawny throng
Their flying feet and their song inspire. 
They have finished the song and the sacred dance,
And hand in hand to the feast advance—­
To the polished bowls of the golden maize,
And the sweet fawn-meat in the polished trays.

Then up from his seat in the silent crowd
Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud;
Swift was his stride as the panther’s spring,
When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair;
Wiwaste he caught by her flowing hair,
And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring. 
She turned on the warrior, her eyes flashed fire;
Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire;