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 being, a

power that neither time nor death could change. Now he spoke to her, his low tones sounding weird in that house of the dead, a strange place for words of love.

"My woman, mine yet, for death itself cannot take from Multnomah that which is his own; my bird that came from the sea and made its nest for a little while in the heart of Multnomah and then flew away and left it empty, I have been hungry to see you, to touch your hair and look upon your face again. Now I am here, and it is sweet to be with you, but the heart of Multnomah listens to hear you speak."

He still went on stroking her hair softly, reverently. It seemed the only caress of which he was capable, but it had in it a stern and mournful tenderness.

"Speak to me! The dead talk to the tomanowos men and the dreamers. You are mine; talk to me; I am in need. The shadow of something terrible to come is over the Willamette. The smoking moun tains are angry; the dreamers see only bad signs; there are black things before Multnomah, and he can not see what they are. Tell me, the dead are wise and know that which comes, what is this unknown evil which threatens me and mine? "

He looked down at her with intense craving, in tense desire, as if his imperious will could reanimate that silent clay and force to the mute lips the words he so desired. But the still lips moved not, and the face lay cold under his burning and commanding gaze. The chief leaned closer over her; he called her name aloud, something that the Willamette Indians rarely did, for they believed that if the names of