Was dipped in poison, and de Breboeuf saw
The painted faces and the swift-slain dead,--
The deep, unhealing wound--the rent of red
Made by the weapon of the Iroquois.

Closed in the village with its palisade,
Guarded by many a mighty Huron brave,
The women and the little children stayed,
Lest forest fire or sweeping midnight raid
Make all their hunting ground a common grave.

It was at daybreak that they heard the cry:
"The Iroquois!--The Iroquois! They come!
Fly to the hidden forest places! Fly!--
To linger in the village is to die--
Steal through the river grasses--and be dumb!"

Swiftly the women and the children fled,
But with the braves de Breboeuf stayed behind.
"Go!" cried the chief, "good father--we be dead!"
Yet soft he answered as he shook his head:
"I stay with thee--and with thy old and blind."

When the red sun came creeping up the sky
Grey death had reaped the harvest hate had sown;
The Jesuit heard no longer curse or sigh--
His prayers were said for those about to die--
He faced the living Iroquois alone.

They bound him fast beneath the forest green,