There was an instant’s silence; then in a murmur like the rush of the sea came back the voice of the multitude.
“Tohomish! Tohomish! he is greatest!”
“He is greatest,” said Multnomah. But Tohomish, sitting there dejectedly, seemed neither to see nor hear.
“To-morrow,” said the war-chief, “while the sun is new, the chiefs will meet in council and the great talk shall be ended. And after it ends, Multnomah’s daughter will be given to Snoqualmie, and Multnomah will bestow a rich potlatch [a giving of gifts] on the people. And then all will be done.”
The gathering broke up. Gradually, as the Indians gazed on the smoking mountains, the excitement produced by the oratory they had just heard wore off. Only Tohomish’s sombre eloquence, so darkly in unison with the menacing aspect of Nature, yet lingered in every mind. They were frightened and startled, apprehensive of something to come. Legends, superstitious lore of by-gone time connected with the “smoking mountains,” were repeated that afternoon wherever little groups of Indians had met together. Through all these gathered tribes ran a dread yet indefinable whisper of apprehension, like the first low rustle of the leaves that foreruns the coming storm.
Over the valley Mount Adams towered, wrapped in dusky cloud; and from Mount Hood streamed intermittent bursts of smoke and gleams of fire that grew plainer as the twilight fell. Louder, as the hush of evening deepened, came the sullen roar from the crater of Mount Hood. Below the crater, the ice-fields that had glistened in unbroken whiteness the previous day were now furrowed with wide black streaks, from which the vapor of melting snow and burning lava ascended in dense wreaths. Men wiser than these ignorant savages would have said that some terrible convulsion was at hand.
Multnomah’s announcement in the council was a dreadful blow to Cecil, though he had expected it. His first thought was of a personal appeal to the chief, but one glance at the iron features of the autocrat told him that it would be a hopeless undertaking. No appeal could turn Multnomah from his purpose. For Cecil, such an undertaking might be death; it certainly would be contemptuous refusal, and would call down on Wallulah the terrible wrath before which the bravest sachem quailed.
Cecil left the grove with the other chiefs and found his way to his lodge. There he flung himself down on his face upon his couch of furs. The Indian woman, his old nurse, who still clung to him, was absent, and for some time he was alone. After a while the flap that hung over the entrance was lifted, and some one came in with the noiseless tread of the Indian. Cecil, lying in a maze of bitter thought, became aware of the presence of another, and raised his head. The Shoshone renegade stood beside him. His gaze rested compassionately on Cecil’s sad, worn face.
“What is it?” he asked. “Your words were slow and heavy to-day. There was a weight on your spirit; what is it? You said that we were friends, so I came to ask if I could help.”
“You are good, and like a brother,” replied Cecil, gently, “but I cannot tell you my trouble. Yet this much I can tell,”—and he sat upon the couch, his whole frame trembling with excitement. “I have sinned a grievous sin, therefore the Great Spirit took away the words from my lips to-day. My heart has become evil, and God has punished me.”
It was a relief to his over-burdened conscience to say those harsh things of himself, yet the relief was bitter. Over the bronzed face of the Indian came an expression of deep pity.
“The white man tears himself with his own claws like a wounded beast, but it does not give him peace. Has he done evil? Then let him remember what he has so often told the Indians: ‘Forsake evil, turn from sin, and the Great Spirit will forgive.’ Let my white brother do this, and it will be well with him.”
He gazed at Cecil an instant longer; then, with a forbearance that more civilized men do not always show, he left the lodge without another word.
But what he said had its effect. Through Cecil’s veins leaped the impulse of a sudden resolve,—a resolve that was both triumph and agony. He fell on his knees beside the couch.
“Thou hast shown me my duty by the lips of the Indian, and I will perform it. I will tear this forbidden love from my heart. Father, help me. Once before I resolved to do this and failed. Help me that I fail not now. Give me strength. Give me the mastery over the flesh, O God! Help me to put this temptation from me. Help me to fulfil my mission.”
The struggle was long and doubtful, but the victory was won at last. When Cecil arose from his knees, there was the same set and resolute look upon his face that was there the morning he entered the wilderness, leaving friends and home behind him forever,—the look that some martyr of old might have worn, putting from him the clinging arms of wife or child, going forth to the dungeon and the stake.
“It is done,” murmured the white lips. “I have put her from me. My mission to the Indians alone fills my heart. But God help her! God help her!”
For the hardest part of it all was that he sacrificed her as well as himself.
“It must be,” he thought; “I must give her up. I will go now and tell her; then I will never look upon her face again. But oh! what will become of her?”
And his long fingers were clinched as in acutest pain. But his sensitive nerves, his intense susceptibilities were held in abeyance by a will that, once roused, was strong even unto death.
He went out. It was dark. Away to the east Mount Hood lifted its blazing crater into the heavens like a gigantic torch, and the roar of the eruption came deep and hoarse through the stillness of night. Once, twice it seemed to Cecil that the ground trembled slightly under his feet. The Indians were huddled in groups watching the burning crest of the volcano. As the far-off flickering light fell on their faces, it showed them to be full of abject fear.
“It is like the end of the world,” thought Cecil. “Would that it were; then she and I might die together.”
He left the camp and took the trail through the wood to the trysting-place; for, late as it was, he knew that she awaited him.
Chapter 8 IN THE DARK.
There is not one upon life’s weariest way,
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Swinburne.
The grim sentinels by the pathway, who had been so reluctant to let Cecil pass the day before, were still more reluctant this evening. One of them planted himself in the trail directly in front of Cecil, and did not offer to let him go on, but stood sullenly blocking the way. Cecil touched the warrior’s arm and bade him stand aside. For an instant it seemed that he would refuse, but his superstitious respect for the white tomanowos overcame his obstinacy,—and he stepped unwillingly back.
But as Cecil went on he felt, and felt rightly, that they would not let him pass again,—that the last act, be it what it might, in his love drama, was drawing to a close.
A few moments’ walk, and he saw in the dark the little figure awaiting him under the trees. She came slowly forward to meet him. He saw that her face was very pale, her eyes large and full of woe. She gave him her hands; they felt like ice. He bent over her and kissed her with quivering lips.
“Poor child,” he said, putting his arms around her slender form and drawing it close in his embrace, “how can I ever tell you what I have to tell you to-night!”
She did not respond to his caress. At length, looking up in a lifeless, stricken way, she spoke in a mechanical voice, a voice that did not sound like her own,—
“I know it already. My father came and told me that to-morrow I must—” She shuddered; her voice broke; then she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him passionately. “But they can never tear me away from you; never, never!”
How