rmth have gone out of the light, laughter
has grown a sob of pain, and sorrow and death have become what the
feast, the battle, and the chase are to other men. It is the black
secret, the secret of the coming trouble, that makes Tohomish's voice
like the voice of a pine; so that men say it has in it sweetness and
mystery and haunting woe, moving the heart as no other can. And if he
tells the secret, eloquence and life go with it. Shall Tohomish tell
it? Will Multnomah listen while Tohomish shows what is to befall the
bridge and the Willamettes in the time that is to come?"

The war-chief gazed at him earnestly. In that troubled, determined
look, superstition struggled for a moment and then gave way to the
invincible obstinacy of his resolve.

"No. Multnomah knows that his own heart is strong and will not fail
him, come what may; and that is all he cares to know. If you told me,
the _tomanowos_ would be angry, and drain your spirit from you and
cast you aside as the serpent casts its skin. And you must be the most
eloquent of all at the great council; for there the arm of Multnomah
and the voice of Tohomish must bend the bad chiefs before them."

His accents had the same undertone of arbitrary will, of inflexible
determination, that had been in them when he spoke in the council.
Though the shadows fell more and more ominous and threatening across
his path, to turn back did not occur to him. The stubborn tenacity of
the man could not let go his settled purpose.

"Tohomish will be at the council and speak for his chief and his
tribe?" asked Multnomah, in a tone that was half inquiry, half
command; for the seer whose mysterious power as an orator gave him so
strong an influence over the Indians must be there.

Tohomish's haggard and repulsive face had settled back into the look
of mournful apathy habitual to him. He had not, since the council,
attempted to change the chief's decision by a single word, but seemed
to have resigned himself with true Indian fatalism to that which was
to come.

"Tohomish will go to the council," he said in those soft and lingering
accents, indescribably sweet and sad, with which his degraded face
contrasted so strongly. "Yes, he will go to the council, and his voice
shall bend and turn the hearts of men as never before. Strong will be
the words that he shall say, for with him it will be sunset and his
voice will be heard no more."

"Where will you go when the council is ended, that we sh