Long they watched the bay and marveled At its strange, alluring beauty; Watched it in its changing colors-- In the gray of misty mornings, In the blue of sunny mid-day, In the glories of the sunset, In the silver flood of moonlight-- It enticed and seemed to beckon, Then, as ever, to the strangers. Long their Wizards danced, and rattled With their gourds, to rouse the Demon Of the Mountain to assist them-- Danced until they fell in frenzy, Prophesying wealth of plunder. Warriors danced and chanted war songs, Stamped and shouted, waved their war clubs, With the war paint on their bodies, Black and yellow and vermillion. Hideous and terrifying Were they when they took the warpath. Oh, the terror of their coming! Oh, the horror of the battle On the meadows of the uplands! Forward, by the strength of numbers, Pressed the Devils of Diablo; Slowly backward fell the Tamals To the Stronghold of the Boulders. When the darkness of the midnight Fell as a protecting blanket, Silently my tribe retreated, Ere the ring should be completed By the merciless invaders. All the Tamals started northward-- Men and women, little children-- Through the open, grassy meadows, Through the forest to the ridges Circling round the Bay below them. At the dawning of the morning They were resting on a hilltop. To the west the Bay was sleeping Underneath its misty blanket; To the east a lake was gleaming In the rosy light of sunrise. While they rested on the mountain, Weary, footsore, and disheartened, Came pursuing scouts to spy them. Fierce and bloody was the combat, All the rocks were stained with crimson. Then the scouts, or those still living, Fled to tell their wicked Chieftain Where to find the fleeing Tamals. Loud the wail of lamentation When the Tamals saw their warriors Who had fallen in the combat Lying lifeless on the mountain. Louder still, the cry of anguish When they found their Maid of Mercy Helpless now, and sorely wounded. No more would her strong young shoulders Bear the wounded braves to safety, Nor would she withdraw the arrows, Bind the wounds nor stanch the bleeding. On the shoulder of the Chieftain She was carried, for no other Had such strength and gentle manner. On his shoulder thus he bore her, Fleeing northward on the ridges, Bore her gladly, for he loved her. All the women were exhausted, All the children, tired and weeping; Half the warriors, dead or wounded-- Slow and painful was the progress. On they fled, but often turning, Looking backward o'er their shoulders, Fearful lest the foe o'ertake them Ere they reached a place of safety.