Crash follows crash.—"Are these approaching foes?
Do one or more their march thus pioneer?"
No answer Waban made, but seemed to shrink
Among the vines along the rock's dark brink.
XLIII.
A moment more, and, bounding o'er the hedge,
A monster trotted tow'rd the mounting flame;
Then turned and bayed;—'twere doubtful to allege
Dog, fox, or wolf, his aspect best became;
Still did he howl, with still increasing rage;
And Waban rose and gave his arrow aim,
But ere its flight, a whistled signal rang;
The hybrid turned, and to the forest sprang.
XLIV.
"The fell Pawaw! his dog!" red Waban cried,
In tone suppressed, and hid himself again;
And Williams feared he had too much relied
Upon the courage of that dusky man;
He took the hatchet from the hunter's side,
And dropt the feebler bludgeon from his span;
"Thy sachem," said he, "will himself essay
To aid his warrior in the approaching fray."
XLV.
"'Tis good!" said Waban, "so red sachems do—
But there! behold! behold! They come! They come!"
And Williams looked, and there, the thickets through,
Half in the light, half in the changeful gloom,
The forest boughs seemed moving out to view,
Branch heaped on branch, a weight most cumbersome
For human feet, yet human feet, he knew,
That burden bore, and with it dangers new.
