ever had
he been more grandly the Apostle to the Indians than now.

In passionate tenderness, in burning appeal, in living force and power
of delivery, it was the supreme effort of his life. He did not plead
for himself; he ignored, put aside, forgot his own personal danger;
but he set before his hearers the wickedness of their own system of
retaliation and revenge; he showed them how it overshadowed their
lives and lay like a deadening weight on their better natures. The
horror, the cruelty, the brute animalism of the blood-thirst, the
war-lust, was set over against the love and forgiveness to which the
Great Spirit called them.

The hearts of the Indians were shaken within them. The barbarism which
was the outcome of centuries of strife and revenge, the dark and
cumulative growth of ages, was stirred to its core by the strong and
tender eloquence of this one man. As he spoke, there came to all those
swarthy listeners, in dim beauty, a glimpse of a better life; there
came to them a moment's fleeting revelation of something above their
own vindictiveness and ferocity. That vague longing, that indefinable
wistfulness which he had so often seen on the faces of his savage
audiences was on nearly every face when he closed.

As he took his seat, the tide of inspiration went from him, and a
deadly faintness came over him. It seemed as if in that awful reaction
the last spark of vitality was dying out; but somehow, through it all,
he felt at peace with God and man. A great quiet was upon him; he was
anxious for nothing, he cared for nothing, he simply rested as on the
living presence of the Father.

Upon the sweet and lingering spell of his closing words came
Multnomah's tones in stern contrast.

"What is the word of the council? Shall the white man live or die?"

Snoqualmie was on his feet in an instant.

"Blood for blood. Let the white man die at the torture-stake."

One by one the chiefs gave their voice for death. Shaken for but a
moment, the ancient inherited barbarism which was their very life
reasserted itself, and they could decide no other way. One, two,
three of the sachems gave no answer, but sat in silence. They were men
whose hearts had been touched before by Cecil, and who were already
desiring the better life They could not condemn their teacher.

At length it came to Tohomish. He arose. His face, always repulsive,
was pallid now in the extreme. The swathed corpses on _mimaluse_
island looked not more