She had travelled through nights and days,
Barely staying to rest,
By lonely, perilous ways,
Farther and farther west,
Till a beach and a long blue race
And a sail came into sight,
And she knew she should look on his face
Before she lay down that night.

In the dust, a track of red
Followed her naked feet;
On her small, uncovered head
The blaze of the sunset beat;
No sense remained of cold,
Or heat, or hope of rest,
Only the strength to hold
His baby to her breast;
And ever, with sound the same,
She hailed and questioned each,
Knowing no word but his name
In all the white man's speech.

Where scarlet passion flowers
Hung in the cedar trees,
She crouched through the twilight hours,
With the babe across her knees—
'Mid the snakes and the evening damps
A shadow, unreproved—
And beyond, in a glimmer of lamps,
The fair white woman moved.

His hand unlatched the gate;
His footstep crushed the grass;
A shadow desolate,
She rose, where he should pass.
No trick she knew, nor spell
Of wayward witcheries—
Before his feet she fell,
And held him by the knees.
‘Where the salt marsh currents drift,
And the wrack is seaward swung,
I have journeyed,’ she said, in her swift
Soft-flowing Indian tongue,
‘Across the rushing creek,
Through the windy prairie place,
Only to hear thee speak!
Only to look in thy face!’

He tore her hands in twain,
And spurned her out of his path;
But her fingers locked again,
And held him yet in his wrath;
With a dog's dumb, patient look,
Undriven by blows apart,
She clung at his knee, and took
His knife into her heart.