Chapter 9 No.9

Grave, in silent circles seated

'Neath their Moya's smoke-tanned cone,

Round the fire his chieftains heard him,

Holding each a pipe's red stone.

Pausing long, they gave their counsel,

Different from their wont; for here

All the young men spoke for kindness,

All the old men were severe.

But the Braves rode forth at morning,

Half the magic darts they bore;

Pledge so precious of their friendship

None had thought to give before!

To the huntress nation welcome,

Waking song in every tent,

Where the hours were passed in feasting

And the days to love were lent!