inning to produce the result that the politic
chief had intended they should. Better feeling was springing up. The
spirit of discontent that had been rife was disappearing. Every day
good-fellowship grew more and more between the Willamettes and their
allies. Every day Snoqualmie the Cayuse became more popular among the
tribes, and already he was second in influence to none but Multnomah
himself.

The great war-chief had triumphed over every obstacle; and he waited
now only for the last day of the council, when his daughter should be
given to Snoqualmie and the chiefs should recognize him as the future
head of the confederacy.

Knowing this, the sight of Snoqualmie's successful archery was almost
intolerable to Cecil, and he turned away from the place where the
games were held.

"I will seek the young Willamette who is sick," he said to himself.
"Then this evening I will go and visit Wallulah."

The thought sent the blood coursing warmly through his veins, but he
chided himself for it. "It is but duty, I go to her only as a
missionary," he repeated to himself over and over again.

He went to the lodge of the young Willamette and asked for him.

"He is not here," the father of the youth told him. "He is in the
sweat-house. He is sick this morning, _hieu_ sick."

And the old man emphasized the _hieu_ [much], with a prolonged
intonation and a comprehensive gesture as if the young man were very
sick indeed. To the sweat-house went Cecil forthwith. He found it to
be a little arched hut, made by sticking the ends of bent willow-wands
into the ground and covering them over with skins, leaving only a
small opening for entrance. When a sick person wished to take one of
those "sweat baths" so common among the Indians, stones were heated
red hot and put within the hut, and water was poured on them. The
invalid, stripped to the skin, entered, the opening was closed behind
him, and he was left to steam in the vapors.

When Cecil came up, the steam was pouring between the overlapping
edges of the skins, and he could hear the young Willamette inside,
chanting a low monotonous song, an endlessly repeated invocation to
his _totem_ to make him well. How he could sing or even breathe in
that stifling atmosphere was a mystery to Cecil.

By and by the Willamette raised the flap that hung over the entrance
and crawled out, hot, steaming, perspiring at every pore. He rushed
with unsteady footsteps down to the river, only a few yard