He sprang to his feet, with ashen face,
And his trusty rifle flew to its place;
A maddening yell from the savage crew
Proved the ball to the mark had straightway flew.
Six times his trusty rifle spoke;
Each time an Indian skull it broke.
His gallant sons stood near their sire
And reinforced his deadly fire!
Their doom was sealed. The savage horde
Soon reached their bark and sprang aboard;
Yet scorned they even then to yield,
While strength was left a knife to wield.
Each one dared a hero's part;
Each knife it sought a savage heart,
Nor did they cease to bathe in gore
Till they sank beneath to rise no more.
Paralee and her mother lay
To savage hands an early prey;
For neither knew, nor felt they ought,
Of what they did or what they sought,
Since terror and alarm, too deep,
Had locked their senses all in sleep.
Alas! that they should ever wake:
Returning senses meant the stake.
Soon homeward with the living dead
The savage horde in triumph sped;
And bore to haunts of Ella Ree
The paleface foe she longed to see.
Better for Paralee had she died
Amid the battle's raging tide.
"Not wounded tigress in her lair
More dangerous than a jealous fair!"
Assembled around the Council Fire,
With haughty mien and rising ire,
Each chief was ready to relate
His own exploit or vent his hate.
Safely bound by cruel thong,
In the center of the throng,
The captives sat in silent dread,
Envying none except the dead.