Iraçéma: the Honey-lips, a Legend of Brazil

Front matter

BY

J. DE ALENCAR

TRANSLATED, WITH THE AUTHOR՚S PERMISSION,

Preface

I cannot allow my readers to remain ignorant of the name of Senhor J. de Alencar, the author of this and several other works; for he deserves to be as well known in England as in Brazil, and it must be the result of the usual modesty of a really clever man that he is not so.

He is their first prose and romance writer. His style, written in the best Portuguese of the present day—one to be learnt and copied—is in thorough good taste and feeling. It contains poetic and delicate touches, and beauty in similes, yet it is real and true to life.

I cannot thank him sufficiently for having allowed so incompetent a translator as myself to be the first to introduce him to the British public. I have endeavoured to be as literal as possible, but I cannot pretend to do him justice, for our harsh Northern tongue only tells coarsely a tale full of grace and music in the Portuguese language; but I have done my best, and if he permits me to translate all his works, I hope to do better as I go on, especially if he will again—as he has already done—give me instructions in Tupy, the language of the aborigines.

ISABEL BURTON.

Santos São Paulo, Brazil.

Historical argument

This legend of the aborigines is laid in Ceará, a northern province of Brazil, at that time unknown and unconquered.

In 1603, Pero Coelho, a gentleman of Parahyba, another northerly province, then already belonging to the Portuguese, arrived at the mouth of the river Jaguaribe in Ceará, with a command of 80 colonists and 800 Indians. He there founded the first in Ceará, and called it Nova Lisboa.

This Pero Coelho was abandoned by his comrades when a certain João Soromenho was sent to him with reinforcements, and was authorised to pay the of the expedition by making captives or slaves. He did not respect even the Indians of the Jaguaribe river, who were friendly to the Portuguese.

This proved the downfall of the growing settlement. The natives resented such tyranny. Pero Coelho, with his wife and young children, was compelled to fly by land to his own province.

In the first expedition was Martim Soares Moreno, a youth from Rio Grande do Norte, another northerly province belonging to the Portuguese. He entered into bonds of friendship with Jacaúna and his brother Poty, who were chiefs of the Indians of the seaboard. In 1608, by order of Dom Diogo Menezes, he to establish a colony, and in 1611 he founded the fortified place of Nossa Senhora do Amparo, or “Our Lady of Protection.”

Jacaúna, who lived on the borders of Acáracú―“River of the Heron's nest”—settled near it with his tribe, to protect it from the Indians of the interior, and from the French, who then infested the coast.

Poty eventually became a Christian, and was Antonio Phelipe Camarão. He highly himself when the Dutch invaded the coast, and his services were richly rewarded by the Government.

Martim Soares Moreno became a Field-Marshal, and was one of those brave Portuguese leaders who delivered Brazil from the Hollander invasion. Ceará should honour his memory as that of a good and valiant man, and—the first settlement by Coelho at the mouth of the Jaguaribe having proved a failure—hold him to be her true founder.

My readers will better understand this tale by my explaining that the Pytiguáras were an aboriginal tribe who occupied the shores between Parnahyba and the Jaguaribe, or Rio Grande.

Their chiefs were Jacaúna and Poty (afterwards Camarão, "the Prawn"), two brothers, who were firm allies to the Portuguese. They were at war with the Tabajáras, another tribe occupying the mountains of Ibyapaba, and the interior as far as the province of Piauhy.

The Chiefs of these inland people were also two. The first was Irapúam, which, translated into Portuguese, means Mel Redondo, or "Round Honey," a wild and vicious bee of that name. This famous bloodthirsty chief ruled in Ceará, but Gráo Deabo—Big Devil—was Lord of the Tabajáras in Piauhy. Both were bitter enemies of the Portuguese, and allied themselves with the French of Maranhão—another northerly province—who had penetrated into and taken possession of the lands as far as the mountain range of Ibyapaba.

pt:Iracema/Argumento Histórico

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

Wild green seas of my Native Land, where sings the Jandáia-bird in the fronds of the Carnaúba-palm!

Green seas which sparkle like liquid emerald in the rays of the orient sun, as ye stretch along the snowy beaches shaded by the cocoa-tree!

Be still, ye green seas! and gently smooth the impetuous wave, that yon venturesome barque may softly glide over thy waters.

Where goes that hardy Jangada-raft, which rapidly flies from the Ceará coast, with her broad sail spread to the fresh breeze of land?

Where goes it, like the white halcyon seeking his native rock in the ocean solitudes?

Three beings breathe upon that fragile plank, which scuds so swiftly out—far into the open sea.

A warrior youth, whose pale skin betokens that the blood of the Indians does not colour his veins; a child, and a mastiff, who both first saw the light in the cradle of the forest, and who sport like brothers, the sons of the same savage soil.

The intermittent breathings from the shore waft an echo which, rising high above the ripple of the waves, sounds forth—

"Iraçéma!" * * *

The young warrior, leaning against the mast, raises his eyes, which are fixed upon the fleeting outline of the shadowy shore. From time to time his sight dim, and a tear falls upon the Giráo-bench, where frolic the two innocents, the companions of his misfortune.

At such moments his soul flies to his lips in a bitter smile.

What left he in that land of exile?

A tale which they told me on the beautiful plains that saw my birth, during the hush of night, whilst the moon, sailing through the heavens, silvered the prairies; whilst the breezes murmured amid the palm groves.

The wind freshens.

The surf rolls in higher billows. The barque leaps upon the waves—disappears on the horizon. Wide yawns the waste of waters. The storm broods, , with dusky wings over the abyss.

God keep thee safe, stout barque, amidst the billows ! God steer thee to some friendly bight ! May softer breezes waft thee, and for thee may the calm jasper seas be like plains of milk !

But whilst thou sailest thus at the mercy of the winds, graceful barque, waft back to that white beach some of the yearning that accompanies thee, but which may not leave the land to which it returns.

pt:Iracema/I

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

Far, very far from that Serra which purples the , was born Iraçéma.

Iraçéma, the virgin with the honey lips, whose hair, hanging below her palm-like waist, was jetty as the Graúna bird's wing.

The comb of the Játy-bee was less sweet than her smile, and her breath excelled the perfume exhaled by the vanilla of the woods.

Fleeter than the wild roe, the dark virgin wandered freely through the plains and forests of Ipú, where her warlike tribe, a part of the great Tabajára nation, lay wigwamed. Her subtle, naked foot scarcely pressed to earth the thin green garment with which the early rains clothe the ground.

One day, when the sun was in mid-day height, she was reposing in a forest-clearing. The shade of the Oitycíca, more refreshing than the dew of night, bathed her form. The arms of the wild acacia dropped their blossoms upon her wet hair. The birds hidden in the foliage sang for her their sweetest songs.

Iraçéma left the bath. Pearl drops of water stood upon her, like the sweet Mangába, which blushes in the refreshing dawn-dew. Whilst reposing she refits her arrows with the plumes of the Gará, whilst she joins in the joyous song of the forest Sabiá, perched in the nearest bough.

A beautiful Ará, her companion and friend, plays near her. Now the bird climbs the branches and calls the virgin by her name; then he slips down and shakes the little satchel of coloured straw in which the wild maid carries her perfumes, her white threads of the Crautá, her needles of Jussára-thorn, with which she works the grass-cloth, and her dyes that serve to tinge the cotton.

A suspicious noise breaks the soft harmony of the siesta. Iraçéma raises the eyes which no sun can dazzle, and her sight is troubled.

Standing before her, absorbed in gazing upon her, is a strange warrior, if indeed it is a warrior, and not some evil spirit of the forest. His face is white as the sands that border the sea, his eyes are sadly blue as the deep. He bears unknown weapons, and is clad in unknown cloths.

Rapid as her eye-glance was the action of Iraçéma. An arrow shot from the bow, and red drops ran down the face of the unknown.

At the first impulse his nimble hand sought his sword-cross; but presently he smiled.

The young warrior had been brought up in the religion of his mother, wherein Woman is a symbol of tenderness and love. He suffered more in his soul than from his wound.

What expression was in his eye and whole face— who knows? But it made the virgin cast away her bow and Uiraçába, and run to the warrior, pained at the pain she had caused. The hand so swift to strike more rapidly and gently staunched the dripping stream.

Then Iraçéma brake the murderous arrow. She offered the shaft to the unknown, and she kept the barbed point.

The warrior spoke:—

"Dost thou break with me the arrow of peace?" "Who taught the white warrior the tongue of Iraçéma's brethren? How came he to these forests, which never saw other warrior like to him?"

"Daughter of the forests, I come from afar: I come from the land which thy brothers once , and wherein mine now dwell."

"Welcome be the stranger to the Prairie of the Tabajáras, Lords of the Villages, and to the wigwam of Araken, father of Iraçéma."

pt:Iracema/II

Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

The stranger followed the virgin through the glades.

When the last sun-rays fell upon the crest of the

mountains, and the turtle-dove cooed forth her first lament from the forest depths, they sighted upon the plain beneath them the great Taba; farther on, hanging as it were from a rock, under the shade of the lofty Joaseiro, the wigwam of the Pagé.

The ancient man was seated at the doorway upon a mat of Carnaúba, smoking and meditating on the sacred rites of Tupan. The gentle breath of the breeze fluttered his hair—long, thin, and white as flocks of wool. So statue-like was he, that life only appeared in his hollow, sunken eyes and deep wrinkles.

The Pagé descried, nevertheless, from afar the two forms, advancing, he thought, towards a solitary tree, whose dense foliage was casting a long shadow adown the valley before him.

When the travellers entered the deep gloom of the wood, his eye, made, like the tiger's, for darkness, recognised Iraçéma, and saw that she was followed by a young warrior of a strange race and a far-off land.

The Tabajára tribes beyond Ibyapába were full of a new race of warriors, pale as the flowers of the storm, and coming from the remotest shores to the banks of the Mearim. The old man thought that it was one of these warriors who trod his native ground.

Calmly he awaited.

The virgin advancing, pointed to the stranger and said:—

"He came, father."

"He came well. Tupan sent this guest to the wigwam of Araken."

And thus saying the Pagé passed the calumet to the stranger, and they both entered the wigwam.

The youth took the principal hammock, which was suspended in the centre of the habitation. Iraçéma lighted the fire of hospitality, and brought out food to satisfy hunger and thirst. She produced the spoils of the chase, farinha-water, wild-fruits, honeycombs, wine of the Cajú and the pine-apple.

The virgin then went to the nearest spring of fresh water, and returned with the full Igaçába, to wash the stranger՚s hands and face. When the warrior had eaten, the venerable Pagé extinguished the Caximbo and spoke for the first time.

"Thou camest?"

"I came," replied the unknown.

"Thou camest well. The stranger is master in the wigwam of Araken. The Tabájaras have a thousand warriors to defend him, and women without number to serve him. Let him speak, and all will obey him."

"Pagé! I thank thee for thy hospitality. As soon as the sun shall be born, I leave thy wigwam and thy prairies, where I strayed, but I would not leave them without telling thee who the warrior is whom thou hast made thy friend."

"It is Tupan whom the Pagé serves. He sent him a guest, and he will take him away again. Araken has as yet done nothing for him. He does not ask whence he comes nor whither he goes. If he would sleep, may the happy dreams descend upon him; if he would speak, Araken listens."

The stranger said:—

"I am of the white warriors who raised a Taba on the banks of the Jaguaribe, near the sea, where dwell the Pytiguáras, who hate thy blood. My name is Martim, which in thy tongue means Son of a Warrior. My race is that of the Great People who first saw the lands of thy country. Even now my brethren, routed and beaten back, return by sea to the margins of the Parahyba, whence they came, and my chief, by all, crosses the vast regions of the Apody. Of so many I alone remain, because I was amongst the Pytiguáras of the Acaraú, in the wigwam of the valiant Poty, brother of Jacaúna, who planted with me the Friendship-tree. Three suns have set since we went forth on the hunting path. I lost sight of my friends, and thus I strayed to the prairies of the Tabajáras."

"It was some bad spirit of the forest that blinded the pale-face warrior in the darkness of the woods," replied the old man.

The Cauâm chirped at the other end of the valley. Night had set in.

pt:Iracema/III

Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.

The Pagé shook the Maraca-rattle and left the cabin, but the stranger remained not alone.

Iraçéma returned with the maidens summoned to serve the guest of Araken and the warriors who came to obey him.

"May happiness rock the White Warrior's hammock during the night, and may the sun bring light to his eyes and joy to his soul."

Thus saying, Iraçéma's lip trembled, and the tear stood in her eye.

"Thou leavest me then?" asked Martim.

"The most beautiful virgins of the great Taba remain with the warrior."

"The daughter of Araken was mistaken in them here for the guest of the Pagé."

"Iraçéma may not wait upon the stranger. It is she who guards the secret of the Juréma and the

mystery of dreams. Her hand prepares for the Pagé the drink of Tupan."

The Christian warrior crossed the wigwam and disappeared in the darkness.

The great village lay in the bottom of the valley, which was illuminated by bonfires. Loud rattled the Maracá. The savages were dancing and beating time to their slow surging of the savage song. The inspired Pagé headed the sacred rejoicing, and taught to the believers the secrets of Tupan. The principal chief of the Tabajára nation, Irapúam, had descended from the highest point of the Ibyapaba Serra, to lead the inland tribes against the Pytiguára foe. The warriors of the valley celebrate the arrival of the chief and the coming fight.

The Christian youth saw from afar the glare of the feast-fire, and walked on, gazing at the deep-blue, cloudless sky. The "Dead Star" glittered upon the dome of the forest, and guided his firm step towards the fresh banks of the Acaraú.

When he crossed the valley, as if about to enter the forest, the figure of Iraçéma arose before him. The virgin had followed the stranger like the soft and subtle breeze which passes through the tangled wood without stirring a leaf.

"Wherefore," she murmured, "has the stranger left the Wigwam of Hospitality without taking with him the Gift of Return? Who harmed the pale-faced warrior in the land of the Tabajáras?"

The Christian felt the justice of her complaint and his own ingratitude.

"Daughter of Araken! No one hurt thy guest. It was a longing to see his friends which made him leave the prairies of the Tabajáras. He did not take the Return Gift, but he carries in his heart the memory of Iraçéma."

"If the memory of Iraçéma dwelt in the heart of the stranger, it would not suffer him to depart. The wind blows not away the sand of the desert when the sand has drank deep of the water of rain."

And the virgin sighed.

"The pale-faced warrior should wait till Cauby returns from hunting. The brother of Iraçéma has quick ears. He can hear the Boicininga amidst all the noises of the forest. He has the eyes of the Oitibó, which sees best in the dark. Cauby will guide him to the banks of the river of the herons."

"How long will it be before the brother of Iraçéma returns to the wigwam of Araken?"

"The rising sun will bring the warrior Cauby to the plains of the Ipú."

"Thy guest will wait, daughter of Araken; but if the returning sun bring not the brother of Iraçéma, it will take the pale-faced warrior to the Taba of the Pytiguáras."

And Martim returned to the cabin of the Pagé. The white hammock, perfumed by Iraçéma with Beijoim, gave the guest a calm and sweet sleep. The Christian was lullabied to sleep by the murmurs of the forest and the low tender song of the Indian maid.

pt:Iracema/IV

Chapter V

CHAPTER V.

The Prairie-cock raises his scarlet crest from out his home. His clear trill announces the approach of day.

Darkness still covers the earth, but already the savage people roll up the hammocks in the great Taba, and walk towards the bath. The old Pagé, who had watched all night, talking to the stars, and conjuring the bad spirits of the darkness, entered furtively into the wigwam.

Lo! thundered forth the Boré, filling the valley with its booming sound.

The active warriors seize their weapons and rush to the prairies; when all were collected in the large and circular Ocára, the chief Irapúam sounded the war-cry.

"Tupan gave to the great Tabajára nation all these grounds. We guard the Serras which supply with water the rivers and the fresh Ipús, where grows the maníva, and the cotton. We have abandoned to the barbarous Potyuára, Eaters of Prawns, the naked sands of the sea, with the table-lands wanting wood and water. Now these fishers of the beach, always conquered, give sea-way to the white race, the Warriors of Fire, the enemies of Tupan. Already the Emboabas have stood upon the Jaguaribe river. Soon they will be in the prairies of the Tabajáras, and with them the Potyuáras. Shall we—Lords of the Villages —do like the dove, who hides in her nest while the serpent curls himself along the branches?"

The excited chief brandishes his tomahawk, and hurls it into the middle of the circle. Bending down his forehead, he hid his eyes, ruddy with rage. "Irapúam has spoken," at length he said.

The youngest of the warriors advances.

"The Sparrow-hawk hovers in the air. When the Nhambú rises, he falls from the clouds and tears out his victim's heart. The young Tabajára warrior, son of the Serra, is like the sparrow-hawk."

The Poçema of war thunders and re-echoes. The young warrior lifted up the tomahawk, and in his turn brandished it. Whirled rapidly and menacingly in the air, the chief's weapon passed from hand to hand.

The venerable Andíra, brother of the Pagé, let it fall, and stamped upon the ground with his foot, still firm and active.

The Tabajáras are struck by this unusual action. A vote of peace from such a tried and impetuous warrior! The old hero, who grew to bloodshed as he grew in years—the ferocious Andíra—is it he who lets fall the tomahawk, herald of the coming struggle?

Uncertain and silent, all gave ear.

"Andíra, the old Andíra, has drank more blood in war than all these warriors who now gladden the light of his eyes have drank Cauim at the feasts of Tupan. He has seen more combats in his life than moons which have stripped his brow. How many Potyuára skulls has his implacable hand scalped before Time plucked off his first hair! And old Andíra never feared that the enemy would tread his native ground; he rejoiced at their coming, and, as the breath of winter revives the dried tree, he felt youth return to his decrepid body when he scented the war from afar. The Tabajáras are prudent. They will lay aside the Tomahawk to play the Memby at the feast. Let Irapúam celebrate the coming of the Emboábas, and give them all time to swarm upon our plains. Then Andíra promises him the banquet of victory."

Irapúam could no longer restrain his fury.

"The Old Bat can remain hidden amongst the wine-jars, because he fears the light of day, because he drinks the blood only of the sleeping victim. Irapúam carries the war at the point of his tomahawk. The terror which he inspires flies forward with the hoarse boom of the Boré. The Potyuára already trembles as he hears it roaring in the Serra, roaring louder than the rebounding of the sea."

pt:Iracema/V

Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI.

Martim strolls pace by pace amongst the tall Joazeiros which encircle the wigwam of the Pagé.

It was the hour in which the sweet Aracaty comes up from the sea and spreads over the arid plains its delicious freshness. The plant breathes, and a gentle shiver upraises the green tresses of the forest.

The Christian looks upon the setting sun. The shadow gliding down the mountains and covering the valley enters into his soul. He thinks of his native place and the beloved ones he has left behind. He wonders if he shall some day see them again. Nature all round bewails the death of day. Murmurs the tremulous, tearful wave; moans the breeze in the foliage; even silence is sorrowful.

Iraçéma stood before the young warrior.

"Is it the presence of Iraçéma that disturbs the peace of the stranger's brow?"

Martim looked softly in the virgin's face.

"No, daughter of Araken! thy presence gladdens me like the morning light. It was the memory of my native land that brought a saudade to my anxious soul."

"A bride awaits him there?"

The stranger averted his eyes. Iraçéma's head sank upon her shoulder, like the tender palm of the Carnaúba when the rain overhangs the plains.

"She is not sweeter than Iraçéma, the maiden of the honied lips, nor more beautiful!" murmured the guest.

"The forest flower is beautiful when it has a branch to shelter it, a trunk round which to entwine itself. Iraçéma does not live in the soul of a warrior. She never felt the freshness of his smile."

Silent were both; their eyes fell to the ground. They heard nought save the beating of their hearts.

The virgin was the first to speak.

"Gladness shall soon return to the heart of the pale-faced warrior, because Iraçéma wishes that before nightfall he may see the bride who expects him."

Martim smiled at the young girl's artless wish.

"Come!" said the virgin.

They crossed the forest and descended into the valley. The wood was thick on the hill-skirts; a dense dome of dark-green foliage protected the sylvan shrine dedicated to the mysteries of barbarous rites.

This was the sacred wood of the Juréma. Around stood the rugged trunks of the Tupan tree; from the boughs, hidden by thick greenery, hung the sacrificial vases; ashes of the extinct fire, which had been used for the feast of the last new moon, still strewed the ground.

Before entering this place of mystery, the virgin, who was leading the warrior by the hand, hesitated, and applied her subtle ear to the sighings of the breeze. Each slight noise of the forest had a meaning for the wild daughter of the desert. However, there was nothing suspicious in the deep respiration of the forest.

Iraçéma signed to the stranger to wait and be silent, whilst she disappeared in the thickest of the wood. The sun still hung over the mountain ridge, and night began to shroud the solitary spot.

When the virgin returned, she brought in a leaf some drops of an unknown green liquor, poured from an Igaçába, which she had taken out of the ground. She presented the rude bowl to the warrior.

"Drink!"

Martim felt a sleep like death take possession of his eyes; but soon his soul seemed full of light, and strength exhilarated his heart. He lived over again days better and happier than any that he had ever known. He enjoyed the reality of his brightest hopes.

Behold! he returns to his native land. He kisses his aged mother. He sees the pure angel of his boyish love, more beautiful and more tender than before.

Then why, hardly returned to his native home, does the young warrior again abandon his father's roof and seek the desert?

Now he crosses the forests; now he arrives at the plains of the Ipú. He seeks in the forest the daughter of the Pagé. He follows the slight trail of the coy virgin, incessantly sighing forth her sweet name to the breeze:—

"Iraçéma! Iraçéma!" . . .

Now he finds her, and winds his arm round her sweet form.

The young girl, yielding to the warm pressure, hides her face upon the warrior's bosom, and trembles there like a timid partridge when its tender mate ruffles with the beak its delicate plume.

The warrior more than once sighed forth her name, and sobbed as though to summon another loving lip. Iraçéma felt her soul escaping to merge itself in a fiery kiss.

And his brow bent low, and already the flower of her smile hung down as though calling to be culled.

Suddenly the virgin trembled. Quickly disengaging herself from the arm that encircled her, she seized her bow.

pt:Iracema/VI

Chapter VII

CHAPTER VII.

Iraçéma threaded the trees silent as a shade; her sparkling eyes pierced through the foliage like star-beams. She listened to the profound silence of the night and inhaled the balm-blowing breeze.

She stopped. A shadow glided amongst the

boughs and the leaves were crackled by a light step, unless indeed the report was the buzzing of some insect. Slowly the soft sound waxed louder, and with it the shadow became darker.

It was a warrior.

With one bound the virgin confronted him, trembling with fear, and still more with wrath.

"Iraçéma!" exclaimed the brave, recoiling.

"The Anhánga hath doubtless disturbed the sleep of Irapúam, that he has lost himself in the Juréma wood, where no warrior enters save by the will of Araken."

"It was not the Anhánga, but the thought of Iraçéma that disturbed the sleep of the bravest of the Tabajára braves. Irapúam hath descended from his eyrie to follow up the plain the white crane of the river. He came, and Iraçéma fled from his gaze. The voices of the Taba related in the hearing of the Chief that a stranger had sat under the roof-tree of Araken."

The virgin trembled. The warrior fixed upon her his burning eyes.

The heart here in Irapúam's breast became a tiger's heart. It panted with rage. He came scenting the quarry.

"The stranger is in this wood, and Iraçéma accompanied him. Irapúam will drink all his blood: when that of the white warrior shall fill the veins of the Tabajára Chief, perhaps the daughter of Araken may love him."

The maiden՚s black pupils flashed in the dark, and a smile of contempt dropped from her lips, bitter as the gouts of caustic milk which the Euphorbia sheds.

"Never will Iraçéma give herself to the basest of the Tabajára braves. The spirit of Tupan alone fills her breast. Vile is the vampire that hides from the light and drinks the blood of the sleeping victim."

"Daughter of Araken! provoke not the Ounce. The name of Irapúam flies farther than the Goaná of the lake when he scents the rain beyond the mountains. Let the white warrior appear, and let Iraçéma open her arms to the victor."

"The white warrior is the guest of Araken. Peace brought him to the plains of Ipú, and peace guards him here. Whoso offends the stranger shall offend the Pagé."

The Tabajára chief roared lion-like in his rage.

"The fury of Irapúam now hears only the vengeance-cry. The stranger shall die."

"The daughter of Araken is stronger than the Chief of warriors," said Iraçéma, seizing the wartrumpet. "She holds here the voice of the Tupan-god, who calls on his people."

"But she will not call," said the Chief scoffingly.

"No, because Irapúam shall be punished by the hand of Iraçéma. His first step will be the step of death."

The virgin with one bound retreated as much as she had advanced and drew her bow. The chief still grasped the handle of his formidable tomahawk, but he felt for the first time that it was heavy for his strong arm. The blow that was about to strike Iraçéma had already wounded his own heart. He then knew how easily the strongest brave is, out of his very strength, vanquished by love.

"The shadow of Iraçéma will not always hide the stranger from the vengeance of Irapúam. Vile is the warrior who allows himself to be protected by a woman."