SCENE SEVENTH.—THE RUINS OF THE PROPHET'S TOWN.
[Enter the PROPHET, who gloomily surveys the place.]
PROPHET. Our people scattered, and our town in ashes!
To think these hands could work such madness here—
This envious head devise this misery!
Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawn
Such sharp and fell destruction on our race
You might have smiled at me! for I have matched
My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragged
Myself and all into a sea of ruin.
[Enter TECUMSEH.]
TECUMSEH. Devil! I have discovered you at last!
You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs
Have torn our people's flesh—you shall not live!
[The PROPHET retreats facing and followed by TECUMSEH.]
PROPHET. Nay—strike me not! I can explain it all!
It was a woman touched the Magic Bowl,
And broke the brooding spell.
TECUMSEH. Impostor! Slave! Why should I spare you?
[Lifts his hand as if to strike.]
PROPHET. Stay, stay, touch me not!
One mother bore us in the self-same hour.