his place in the
semi-circle, Multnomah sat like a statue of stone. He leaned forward
reclining on his bow, a fine unstrung weapon tipped with gold. He was
about sixty years old, his form tall and stately, his brow high, his
eyes black, overhung with shaggy gray eyebrows and piercing as an
eagle's. His dark, grandly impassive face, with its imposing
regularity of feature, showed a penetration that read everything, a
reserve that revealed nothing, a dominating power that gave strength
and command to every line. The lip, the brow, the very grip of the
hand on the bow told of a despotic temper and an indomitable will.
The glance that flashed out from this reserved and resolute
face--sharp, searching, and imperious--may complete the portrait of
Multnomah, the silent, the secret, the terrible.

When the last late-entering chief had taken his place, Multnomah rose
and began to speak, using the royal language; for like the Cayuses and
several other tribes of the Northwest, the Willamettes had two
languages,--the common, for every-day use, and the royal, spoken only
by the chiefs in council.

In grave, strong words he laid before them the troubles that
threatened to break up the confederacy and his plan for meeting them.
It was to send out runners calling a council of all the tribes,
including the doubtful allies, and to try before them and execute the
rebellious chief, who had been taken alive and was now reserved for
the torture. Such a council, with the terrible warning of the rebel's
death enacted before it, would awe the malcontents into submission or
drive them into open revolt. Long enough had the allies spoken with
two tongues; long enough had they smoked the peace-pipe with both the
Willamettes and their enemies. They must come now to peace that should
be peace, or to open war. The chief made no gestures, his voice did
not vary its stern, deliberate accents from first to last; but there
was an indefinable something in word and manner that told how his
warlike soul thirsted for battle, how the iron resolution, the
ferocity beneath his stoicism, burned with desire of vengeance.

There was perfect attention while he spoke,--not so much as a glance
or a whisper aside. When he had ceased and resumed his seat, silence
reigned for a little while. Then Tla-wau-wau, chief of the Klackamas,
a sub-tribe of the Willamette, rose. He laid aside his outer robe,
leaving bare his arms and shoulders, which were deeply scarred; for
T