The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;
Close to the ship[289] are the frail barks pressed.
Brown and still as a bronze relief,
Shyly Nekama[290] keeps her place
Behind her father, the Mohawk chief,
Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,
Grasping a spear[291] in his nervous hand,
Looking in vain one face to see,
Turns and utters his proud demand:
“Dirck Brandsen[292] comes not: where lingers he?”