The closed eye and compressed lips proclaimed the
presence of death. Life had but recently yielded to the sway of the
stern conqueror. A few hours ago Beloved Hail had eaten and drank on the
very spot where his body now reposed.
Bending over his head is his wife; tears fall like rain from her eyes;
and as grief has again overcome her efforts at composure, see how she
plunges her knife into her arm: and as the warm blood flows from the
wound calls upon the husband of her youth!
"My son! my son!" bursts from the lips of his aged mother, who weeps at
his feet; while her bleeding limbs bear witness to the wounds which she
had inflicted upon herself in the agony of her soul. Nor are these the
only mourners. A crowd of friends are weeping round his body. But the
mother has turned to the warriors as they press through the crowd; tears
enough have been shed, it is time to think of revenge. "Look at your
friend," she says, "look how heavily lies the strong arm, and see, he is
still, though his wife and aged mother call upon him. Who has done this?
who has killed the brave warrior? bring me the murderer, that I may cut
him on pieces.
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