.

"What is that?" asked the groups around the camp fires.

"The rebel chief's wife wailing the death-wail for her husband," was
the low reply; and in that way the tribes knew that the sentence had
been carried out. Many bands were there, of many languages, but all
knew what that death-wail meant the instant it fell upon their ears.
Multnomah heard it as he sat in council with his chiefs, and there was
something in it that shook even his iron heart; for all the wilder,
more superstitious elements of the Indians thrilled to two
things,--the war-cry and the death-wail. He dismissed his chiefs and
went to his lodge. On the way he encountered Tohomish, lurking, as was
his wont, under the shadow of the trees.

"What think you now, Tohomish, you who love darkness and shadow, what
think you? Is not the arm of the Willamette strong? Has it not put
down revolt to-day, and held the tribes together?"

The Pine Voice looked at him sorrowfully.

"The vision I told in the council has come back to me again. The cry
of woe I heard far off then is nearer now, and the throng on the
death-trail passes thicker and swifter. That which covered their faces
is lifted, and their faces are the faces of Willamettes, and Multnomah
is among them. The time is close at hand."

"Say this before our enemies, and, strong _tomanowos_ though you are,
you die!" said the chief, laying his hand on his tomahawk. But the
seer was gone, and Multnomah stood alone among the trees.

* * * * *

Every evening at dusk, the widow of the rebel sachem went out into the
woods near the camp and wailed her dead. Every night that wild,
desolate lament was lifted and rang through the great encampment,--a
cry that was accusation, defiance, and lament; and even Multnomah
dared not silence her, for among the Indians a woman lamenting her
dead was sacred. So, while Multnomah labored and plotted for union by
day, that mournful cry raised the spirit of wrath and rebellion by
night. And thus the dead liberator was half avenged.

BOOK IV.

_THE LOVE TALE._

CHAPTER I.

THE INDIAN TOWN.

The bare ground with hoarie mosse bestrowed
Must be their bed, their pillow was unsowed
And the frutes of the forrest was their feast.

_The Faerie Queene._

Never before had there come to Cecil so grand an opportunity for
disseminating gospel truth. The