Page:Potipharswifeoth00arnoiala.djvu/57

 On the snow-white mats a cloth

Heedfully he spreads;

Stealthily his dirk he drew;

Then—when all their heads

Nodded, at the "hour of the Moth" [sic]

Deep he drives it in his thigh.

From the smarting wound

Spirts the blood: when slumber tempts

Twists he that blade round.

Others doze, but Itô shuts no eye!

Soon he sees the Witch appear—

Oh, a dream of death!

Wolf-shaped! Wickedly its mouth

Sucks O Haru's breath.

Itô leaps upon it, free of fear,

Grasps it: flings it: goes to kill!

Struggling shrieks that Shape:

"If you slay me she must die,

Grant me hence escape

And I tell what thing might make her well."