Harrison. 'Twill melt, or draw across the British line,
And wait for war. But double the night watch,
Lest he should strike, and give an instant care
To all our wounded men: to-morrow's sun
Must light us on our backward march for home.
Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a story
New England will grow envious of our glory;
And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd,
Will on old England draw the tardy sword!
Scene.—The Ruins of the Prophet's Town.
Enter the Prophet, who gloomily surveys the place.
Prophet. Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes!
To think these hands could work such madness here—
This envious head devise this misery!
Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawn
Such sharp and fell destruction on our race
You might have smiled at me! for I have match'd
My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'd
Myself and all into a sea of ruin.
Enter Tecumseh.
Tecumseh. Devil! I have discover'd you at last!
You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs
Have torn our people's flesh—you shall not live!
[The Prophet retreats facing and followed by Tecumseh.
Prophet. Nay—strike me not! I can explain it all!
It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl,
And broke the brooding spell.
Tecumseh. Impostor! Slave!
Why should I spare you? [Lifts his hand as if to strike.
Prophet. Stay, stay, touch me not!
One mother bore us in the self-same hour.