Laid back the door, and with a stealthy tread,
Entered and softly crouched beside his head.
Her gaze that seemed to pierce his inmost thought,
Keen as the ready knife her hand had sought,
And through the open door the slant moonbeams
Smiting the sleeper’s face awaked him not.
He vaguely muttered in his wandering dreams
Of “medicine,” and of the Thunder-Bird.
As if to go, her knife she half returned;
Whether her woman’s heart with pity stirred,