The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[365]
     “The fool has signed his warrant; but how
And when shall the deed be wrought?
     Speak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there,
To fix thy gaze in that empty air?—
     Speak, Ruth! by my soul, if I thought that tear,
Which shames thyself and our purpose here,
     Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog,
Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg,
     And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping,—
This—this!” —he dashes his hand upon
     The rattling stock of his loaded gun,—
“Should send thee with him to do thy weeping!”

‘Father!’ the eye of Boniton
     Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone,
Hollow and deep, as it were spoken
     By the unmoving tongue of death,—
Or from some statue's lips had broken,—
     A sound without a breath!
“Father!—my life I value less
     Than yonder fool his gaudy dress;
And how it ends it matters not,
     By heart-break or by rifle-shot;
But spare awhile the scoff and threat,—
     Our business is not finished yet.”

“True, true, my girl,—I only meant
     To draw up again the bow unbent.
Harm thee, my Ruth! I only sought
     To frighten off thy gloomy thought;
Come,—let's be friends!” He seeks to clasp
     His daughter's cold, damp hand in his.
Ruth startles from her father's grasp,
     As if each nerve and muscle felt,
Instinctively, the touch of guilt,
     Through all their subtle sympathies.

He points her to the sleeping Mogg:
     “What shall be done with yonder dog? Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine,—
     The deed is signed and the land is mine;
And this drunken fool is of use no more,
     Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth,
Twere Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth,
     Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor,—
If not for thine, at least for his sake,
     Rather than let the poor dog awake
To drain my flask, and claim as his bride
     Such a forest devil to run by his side,—
Such a Wetuomanit¹ as thou wouldst make!
”

He laughs at his jest. Hush—what isthere?—
     The sleeping Indian is striving to rise,