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I leaned and listened—yes, she spoke my name, And then I answered in the quaint French tongue, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" No answer, and the night Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell The far-off echoes from the far-off height— "Qu'Appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" This—and no more; I called aloud until I shuddered as the gloom of night increased, And, like a pallid spectre wan and chill, The moon arose in silence in the east.

I dare not linger on the moment when My boat I beached beside her tepee door; I heard the wail of women and of men,— I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore. No language tells the torture or the pain, The bitterness that flooded all my life,— When I was led to look on her again, That queen of women pledged to be my wife. To look upon the beauty of her face, The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath; To look, to learn,—to realize my place Had been usurped by my one rival—Death. A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke About my heart, and life shut out its light Till through my anguish some one gently spoke, And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."