Philip.
He's dead; he'll hunt no more; h' 'as done with Game.
[Striking the dead body, and spitting in the face.
Ponteach.
Drive hence his wretched Spirit, lest it plague us;
Let him go hunt the Woods; he's now disarm'd.
[They run round brushing the walls, &c., to dislodge the spirit.
All.
Out, Hunter, out, your Business here is done.
Out to the Wilds, but do not take your Gun.
Ponteach [to the Spirit].
Go, tell our Countrymen, whose Blood you shed,
That the great Hunter Honnyman is dead:
That we're alive, we'll make the English know,
Whene'er they dare to serve us Indians so:
This will be joyful News to Friends from France,
We'll join the Chorus then, and have a Dance.