The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top. Blood — blood and torn grass — Had marked the rise of his agony — This lone hunter. The grey-green woods impassive Had watched the threshing of his limbs. A canoe with flashing paddle, A girl with searching eyes, A call: “John!” * * * Come, arise, hunter! Can you not hear? The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.