IENA. Oh, could it turn you from your mad intent
How freely would I give it! Drop this scheme,
Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds;
And, if contented with my hand, Tarhay
Can have it here.
TARHAY. I love you, Iena!
IENA. Then must you love what I do! Love our race!
'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to unite
Its scattered tribes—his fruit of noble toil,
Which you would snatch unripened from his hand,
And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not—
Oh, touch it not Tarhay! and though my heart
Breaks for it, I am yours.
PROPHET. His anyway,
Or I am not the Prophet!
TARHAY. For my part I have no leaning to this rash
attempt,
Since Iena consents to be my wife.
PROPHET. Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool!
(Aside.)
This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good,
I know to be a very fiend beneath—
Whose sly affections centre on herself,
And feed the gliding snake within her heart.
TARHAY. I cannot think her so—
MAMATEE. She is not so!
There is the snake that creeps among our race;
Whose venomed fangs would bite into our lives,
And poison all our hopes.