And now was the hour of the bath in Taiárapu: far and near The lovely laughter of bathers rose and delighted his ear. Night massed in the valleys; the sun on the mountain coast Struck, end-long; and above the clouds embattled their host, And glowed and gloomed on the heights; and the heads of the palms were gems, And far to the rising eve extended the shade of their stems; And the shadow of Támatéa hovered already at home. And sudden the sound of one coming and running light as the foam Struck on his ear; and he turned, and lo! a man on his track, Girded and armed with an ómare, following hard at his back. At a bound the man was upon him;—and, or ever a word was said, The loaded end of the ómare fell and laid him dead. II. THE VENGING OF TÁMATÉA THUS was Rahéro’s treason; thus and no further it sped The king sat safe in his place and a kindly fool was dead. But the mother of Támatéa arose with death in her eyes. All night long, and the next, Taiárapu rang with her cries. As when a babe in the wood turns with a chill of doubt And perceives nor home, nor friends, for the trees have closed her about, The mountain rings and her breast is torn with the voice of despair: So the lion-like woman idly wearied the air For awhile, and pierced men’s hearing in vain, and wounded their hearts. But as when the weather changes at sea, in dangerous parts, And sudden the hurricane wrack unrolls up the front of the sky, At once the ship lies idle, the sails hang silent on high, The breath of the wind that blew is blown out like the flame of a lamp, And the silent armies of death draw near with inaudible tramp: So sudden, the voice of her weeping ceased; in silence she rose And passed from the house of her sorrow, a woman clothed with repose, Carrying death in her breast and sharpening death with her hand.