Scene III
(Naymoyah is discovered sitting on a moss-covered
rock in the desert weeping. Enter Ostenee).
Ostenee
(softly)
Naymoyah!
Naymoyah
(rising)
Ostenee! What of the Chase?
Ostenee
The Chase is over, but the Wardance has Begun.
Naymoyah
Who did the mighty chiefs decide
Should have the Forest Queen?
Ostenee
Thou seest the man—
The Eagle—Son of Miccanopy—he
Who loves thee better than he does his life—
Who grew up with thee in the forest caves—
Making his first tracks in the sand with thee.
Thou wilt remember, in an evil hour,
When the lank wolf was howling on the coast,
That, being overtaken by the Night,
While wandering all alone amid the caves,
Whose feathery blades made music in the winds,
Responsive to the wolf's obstreperous howl,
That, while terrific palsy shook thy soul,
A furious Tiger, maddened by the Chase,
Grinned horribly in thy love-beaming eyes,
And, crouching closely to the earth, had torn
Thy lovely form in pieces had not this arm
Then laid him lifeless, bleeding at thy feet!
Naymoyah
So thou hast won the hand of this fair Queen?
Ostenee
I have.
Naymoyah
Then tell me who is this fair Queen?
Ostenee
The same that Ostenee saved from the paws
Of that damned Tiger
Naymoyah
Ah! sayst thou so?
Ostenee
And all the mighty chiefs have said the same.
Nor thy brave Ostenee, thy Warriour, comes
To bend the knee that never bent before,
And, bending now in vain, shall never bend
Again!
Naymoyah
'Tis true!
Ostenee
What! shall the lips that have been taught
To utter nothing but the truth, scorn now
The wisdom of the mightiest Chiefs?
Naymoyah
'Tis said.
Ostenee
By Hell! the Pale-face who has taught thee this,
To hate the Red-man so—shall not live long!
Call back the bitter words, that thou hast said,
Or, ere the sun shall set, his scalp shall be
Entwined in clots of blood around thy neck!
Call back the Words again!
Naymoyah
Peace! peace, young man!
For thou art calling down upon thy head
The wrath of Him who never sleeps—the God
Who rules Areskou easier than your power
Can make Naymoyah what she would not be!
All that is Indian in me thou mayst love.
The White-man's part—the part thou wouldst not have—
Is all that makes Naymoyah what she is.
Ostenee
Oh! ye infernal scorpions of the Rocks!
Ye poisonous Serpents of the crowned Hills!
Crawl round the Eden of her heavenly limbs,
And, as ye press the life-blood from her heart,
Oh! sting her spirit, that ye scare away,
With everlasting death!
Naymoyah
Begone, foul Fiend
And never let me see thy face again!
(Exit)
Ostenee
Go! get thee to the Council in an hour!
For when the Chickaconee comes to sound
The Banqueting of Souls, thou shalt behold
The blazing fire round thy Selma's form,
Bear off his Dove-like spirit to the stars!
No! Ostenee can never let him live!
(Exit)
