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dian woman rocked to and fro and chanted the deathsong. "For whom do you mourn, good woman?" he asked. But they made no answer. Only the depressing death-wail broke the silence.

Two days later Mr. Spalding turned to Waiilatpu. An old Indian woman put her hand on his horse's mane and whispered: "Go not to Waiilatpu. Look out for the people there. They are bad people."

"But I must go, good mother; my child is there."

Fear made him fleet. The very air whispered. Across the Walla Walla he met a horseman coming to meet him. It was the priest who was to visit that day at Waiilatpu. Riding ahead of the interpreter and the son of Tiloukaikt, who were lighting their pipes, he motioned to Mr. Spalding.

Apprehensive of evil, "What is the news? "he asked.

"Dr. Whitman is dead," answered the priest.

"Mrs. Whitman?"

"Dead also. Killed by the Indians."

"And my child?"

"Is safe with the captives. Escape! escape! "as he saw the interpreter and the son of Tiloukaikt approaching. "Here is my wallet there is bread in it. Go! "

"But where shall I go?" was Spalding's despairing cry.

"I know not. You know the country better than I. All that I know is that the Indians say the order to kill Americans has been sent in all directions." Dazed, stunned, the missionary took the bread and turned into a bank of fog, just as the interpreter and the son of Tiloukaikt approached Father Brouillet.

Over the sugar-loaf barren hills a messenger came riding post to Lapwai. He dashed through the missi