old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again,
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt.

TENNYSON.

And now our tale draws to a close. There remains but to tell how the
last council was held on Wappatto Island; how Mishlah the Cougar,
chief of the Mollalies, died; and how the prophecy of the Bridge was
fulfilled.

The morning after the obsequies of Multnomah, the chiefs met in the
grove where the great council of the tribes had been held only a few
weeks before. The leaves, which had been green and glossy then, were
turning yellow and sickly now in the close hot weather. All Nature
seemed full of decay.

The chiefs were grouped before the vacant seat of Multnomah; and the
Willamette tribe, gathered from canyon and prairie and fishery, looked
on, sole spectators of the proceedings,--for none of the allies were
present. The ravages of the pestilence had been terrible. Many
warriors were missing from the spectators; many chiefs were absent
from the council. And there were some present from whom the others
shrunk away, whose hot breath and livid faces showed that they too
were stricken with the plague. There were emaciated Indians among the
audience, whose gaunt forms and hollow eyes told that they had dragged
themselves to the council-grove to die. The wailing of the women at
the camp, lamenting those just dead; the howling of the medicine-men
in the distance, performing their incantations over the sick; the
mysterious sounds that came from the burning forest and the
volcano,--all these were heard. Round the council the smoke folded
thick and dark, veiling the sun, and shutting out the light of heaven
and the mercy of the Great Spirit.

The chiefs sat long in silence, each waiting for the other to speak.
At length arose a stately warrior famous among the Willamettes for
wisdom and prudence.

"We perish," said the chief, "we melt away before the breath of the
pestilence, like snow before the breath of the warm spring wind. And
while we die of disease in our lodges, war gathers against us beyond
the ranges. Even now the bands of our enemies may be descending the
mountains, and the tomahawk may smite what the disease has spared.
What is to be done? What say the wise chiefs of the Willamettes?
Multnomah's seat is empty: shall we choose another war-chief?"

A pale and ghastly chief rose to reply. It was evident that he wa