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. "What is that?" asked the groups around the camp fires. "The rebel chief's wife wailing the death-wail for her husband," was the low reply; and in that way the tribes knew that the sentence had been carried out. Many bands were there, of many languages, but all knew what that death-wail meant the instant it fell upon their ears. Multnomah heard it as he sat in council with his chiefs, and there was something in it that shook even his iron heart; for all the wilder, more superstitious elements of the Indians thrilled to two things,--the war-cry and the death-wail. He dismissed his chiefs and went to his lodge. On the way he encountered Tohomish, lurking, as was his wont, under the shadow of the trees. "What think you now, Tohomish, you who love darkness and shadow, what think you? Is not the arm of the Willamette strong? Has it not put down revolt to-day, and held the tribes together?" The Pine Voice looked at him sorrowfully. "The vision I told in the council has come back to me again. The cry of woe I heard far off then is nearer now, and the throng on the death-trail passes thicker and swifter. That which covered their faces is lifted, and their faces are the faces of Willamettes, and Multnomah is among them. The time is close at hand." "Say this before our enemies, and, strong _tomanowos_ though you are, you die!" said the chief, laying his hand on his tomahawk. But the seer was gone, and Multnomah stood alone among the trees. * * * * * Every evening at dusk, the widow of the rebel sachem went out into the woods near the camp and wailed her dead. Every night that wild, desolate lament was lifted and rang through the great encampment,--a cry that was accusation, defiance, and lament; and even Multnomah dared not silence her, for among the Indians a woman lamenting her dead was sacred. So, while Multnomah labored and plotted for union by day, that mournful cry raised the spirit of wrath and rebellion by night. And thus the dead liberator was half avenged. BOOK IV. _THE LOVE TALE._ CHAPTER I. THE INDIAN TOWN. The bare ground with hoarie mosse bestrowed Must be their bed, their pillow was unsowed And the frutes of the forrest was their feast. _The Faerie Queene._ Never before had there come to Cecil so grand an opportunity for disseminating gospel truth. The
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