Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward 740
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!”
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort,
While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest,
Looking up at the trees and the constellations beyond them.
After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment 745
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with warpaint,
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;
Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,