stening stalactites. The floor of this cavern lay slightly
below them, and from their position they could command a full view of
its interior.

The sides of the cavern round about were crowded with tawny faces of
Indians arranged rank upon rank, the first row seated upon the ground,
those behind crouching upon their haunches, those still farther back
standing. In the center of the cavern and with his face lit by the fire
stood the Sioux Chief, Onawata.

"Copperhead! By all that's holy!" cried Cameron.

"Onawata!" exclaimed the half-breed. "What he mak' here?"

"What is he saying, Jerry? Tell me everything--quick!" commanded Cameron
sharply.

Jerry was listening with eager face.

"He mak' beeg spik," he said.

"Go on!"

"He say Indian long tam' 'go have all country when his fadder small boy.
Dem day good hunting--plenty beaver, mink, moose, buffalo like leaf on
tree, plenty hit (eat), warm wigwam, Indian no seeck, notting wrong. Dem
day Indian lak' deer go every place. Dem day Indian man lak' bear 'fraid
notting. Good tam', happy, hunt deer, keel buffalo, hit all day. Ah-h-h!
ah-h-h!" The half-breed's voice faded in two long gasps.

The Sioux's chanting voice rose and fell through the vaulted cavern like
a mighty instrument of music. His audience of crowding Indians gazed
in solemn rapt awe upon him. A spell held them fixed. The whole circle
swayed in unison with his swaying form as he chanted the departed
glories of those happy days when the red man roamed free those plains
and woods, lord of his destiny and subject only to his own will. The
mystic magic power of that rich resonant voice, its rhythmic cadence
emphasized by the soft throbbing of the drum, the uplifted face glowing
as with prophetic fire, the tall swaying form instinct with exalted
emotion, swept the souls of his hearers with surging tides of passion.
Cameron, though he caught but little of its meaning, felt himself
irresistibly borne along upon the torrent of the flowing words. He
glanced at Jerry beside him and was startled by the intense emotion
showing upon his little wizened face.

Suddenly there was a swift change of motif, and with it a change of
tone and movement and color. The marching, vibrant, triumphant chant
of freedom and of conquest subsided again into the long-drawn wail of
defeat, gloom and despair. Cameron needed no interpreter. He knew the
singer was telling the pathetic story of the passing of the day of the
Indian's glory