Pale-faced
PRIEST.
Sinking at heart
CHORUS.
“On whom will it fall?”
Not knowing, thick as snow,
White snow of winter fall their prayers
To their clan-gods, “Protect us” ...
Palm pressed to palm.
PRIEST.
At last the Priest mounted the daïs, raised the lid of the box and counted the lots to see that there was one for each to take.
CHORUS.
Then all the people came forward
To draw their lots.
And each when he unfolded his lot
And found it was not the First,
How glad he was!
But the traveller’s daughter,
Knowing her fate,
Fell weeping to the earth.
PRIEST.