And now he stood, and, through the thicket's screen,
The shadowy prospect seemed to scrutinize,
Then paused, unmoving, till a far-off howl
Did, with long echoes, through the stillness roll.
XV.
It seemed a wolf's, but Waban's practised ear
Could well the language of the forest tell;
Again he paused, till from the distance drear,
A faint response in dying cadence fell;
Then spake in haste;—"Does not my sachem hear
The voice of vengeance in the breezes swell?
Come! Let us hasten to some friendly town,
For murder tracks us through the forest brown!
XVI.
"Comrade to comrade calls!—the demon's priest
Is on our trail!"—No more the red man spoke;
And this in Narraganset's tongue exprest,
To Mary nothing told, save as the look
And earnest gesture may have stirred her breast
With vague alarm.—But these she soon mistook
As native to him in his wonted mood,
And seemed confirmed as she our Founder viewed.
XVII.
He, in like speech, thus to his faithful guide:—
"Waban, be calm! wake not in bosoms frail
A groundless fear; the tokens may have lied;
Some other wolf may be upon our trail."
"Waban was hunted," quickly he replied,
"Far tow'rd the white man's town through yonder vale;
When there, the priest oft in his pathway stept,
And watched the wigwam where the white hand slept."
