f the cottonwoods, an old Willamette warrior put an arrow
on the string and bent his bow unseen on Tohomish.

"He cannot beat them, and it shall never be said that Tohomish
failed," he muttered. At that moment, even as death hung over him, the
orator's voice was heard beginning his "talk;" and the warrior's hand
fell, the bent bow was relaxed, the arrow dropped from the string. For
with the first accents of that soft and lingering voice the tribes
were thrilled as with the beginning of music.

The orator's head was still bent down, his manner abstracted; he spoke
of the legends and the glories of the Willamette tribe, but spoke of
them as if that tribe belonged to the past, as if it had perished from
the earth, and he was telling the tale of a great dead race. His tones
were melodious but indescribably mournful. When at length he lifted
his face, his eyes shone with a misty light, and his brutal features
were illuminated with a weird enthusiasm. A shudder went through the
vast and motley assembly. No boastful rant was this, but a majestic
story of the past, the story of a nation gone forever. It was the
death-song of the Willamettes, solemnly rendered by the last and
greatest orator of the race.

At length he spoke of Multnomah and of the power of the confederacy in
his time, but spoke of it as of old time, seen dimly through the lapse
of years. Then, when as it seemed he was about to go on and tell how
this power came to fall, he hesitated; the words faltered on his lips;
he suddenly broke off, took his seat, and drew his robe again over his
face.

[Illustration: "_It was the Death-song of the Willamettes._"]

The effect was indescribable. The portentous nature of the whole
speech needed only that last touch of mystery. It sent through every
heart a wild and awesome thrill, as at the shadow of approaching
destiny.

The multitude were silent; the spell of the prophet's lofty and
mournful eloquence still lingered over them. Multnomah rose. With him
rested the decision as to who was the greatest orator. But the proud
old war-chief knew that all felt that Tohomish had far surpassed his
competitors, and he was resolved that not his lips but the voice of
the tribes should proclaim their choice.

"Multnomah was to decide who has spoken best, but he leaves the
decision with you. You have heard them all. Declare who is the
greatest, and your word shall be Multnomah's word."

There was an instant's silence; then in a m