Rode like a shield the moon from out the west.
She neared her lodge, but there her quick eye caught
The voice of Gray Cloud, and her steps were stayed,
For over her of late an icy fear
Brooded with vulture wings when he was near.
She knew not why, her eye he never sought,
Nor deigned to speak, and yet she felt dismayed
At thought of him, as the mimosa’s leaf
Before the fingers touch it shrinks with dread.
She paused a moment, then with furtive tread