As the words died on his tongue, Wide apart his warriors swung; Parted, at the sign he gave, Right and left, like Egypt's wave. And, like Israel passing free Through the prophet-charmed sea, Captive mother, wife, and child Through the dusky terror filed. One alone, a little maid, Middleway her steps delayed, Glancing, with quick, troubled sight, Round about from red to white. Then his hand the Indian laid On the little maiden's head, Lightly from her forehead fair Smoothing back her yellow hair. "Gift or favor ask I none; What I have is all my own: Never yet the birds have sung, 'Squando hath a beggar's tongue.' "Yet, for her who waits at home For the dead who cannot come, Let the little Gold-hair be In the place of Menewee! "Mishanock, my little star! Come to Saco's pines afar! Where the sad one waits at home, Wequashim, my moonlight, come!" "What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child Christian-born to heathens wild? As God lives, from Satan's hand I will pluck her as a brand!" "Hear me, white man!" Squando cried, "Let the little one decide. Wequashim, my moonlight, say, Wilt thou go with me, or stay?" Slowly, sadly, half-afraid, Half-regretfully, the maid Owned the ties of blood and race, Turned from Squando's pleading face. Not a word the Indian spoke, But his wampum chain he broke, And the beaded wonder hung On that neck so fair and young. Silence-shod, as phantoms seem In the marches of a dream, Single-filed, the grim array Through the pine-trees wound away. Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, Through her tears the young child gazed. "God preserve her!" Waldron said; "Satan hath bewitched the maid!" * * * * * Years went and came. At close of day Singing came a child from play, Tossing from her loose-locked head Gold in sunshine, brown in shade. Pride was in the mother's look, But her head she gravely shook, And with lips that fondly smiled Feigned to chide her truant child. Unabashed the maid began: "Up and down the brook I ran, Where, beneath the bank so steep, Lie the spotted trout asleep. "'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall, After me I heard him call, And the cat-bird on the tree Tried his best to mimic me. "Where the hemlocks grew so dark, That I stopped to look and hark, On a log, with feather-hat, By the path, an Indian sat. "Then I cried, and ran away; But he called and bade me stay; And his voice was good and mild As my mother's to her child. "And he took my wampum chain, Looked and looked it o'er again; Gave me berries, and, beside, On my neck a plaything tied."