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THE WHITE STONE CANOE.
41
Waiting for him in the darkness—
Now again he sees him waiting.
Clad in robes of blackest sable,
At a wigwam's open doorway,
Stood a form of giant stature;
Hoary locks in snowy whiteness
Floated, cloudlike, down his shoulders;
Fiercely burned his fiery eyeballs,
Piercing through Abeka's bosom,
Reading every thought within him.
Fear, at first, had made him speechless,
Hope soon filled his heart with boldness,
And, in words of power and passion,
He began to tell his story.
Scarce ten rapid words were spoken,
When the other interrupted:—
"Cease your idle talk of these things,
"For I know your thoughts and actions,
