"Poor Wallulah!" Cecil was thinking. "What a terrible future is before her as the wife of that inhuman torturer of men!"
And his sympathies went out to the lonely girl, the golden thread of whose life was to be interwoven with the bloodstained warp and woof of Snoqualmie s. But he tried hard not to think of her; he strove res olutely that day to absorb himself in his work, and the effort was not unsuccessful.
After the races were over, a solemn council was held in the grove and some important questions dis cussed and decided. Cecil took part, endeavoring in a quiet way to set before the chiefs a higher ideal of justice and mercy than their own. He was heard with grave attention, and saw that more than one chief seemed impressed by his words. Only Snoqualmie was sullen and inattentive, and Mishlah the Cougar was watchful and suspicious.
After the council was over Cecil went to his lodge. On the way he found the young Willamette runner sitting on a log by the path, looking even more woe begone than he had the day before. Cecil stopped to inquire how he was.
"Cultus [bad]," was grunted in response.
"Did you see the races?*
"Races bad. What do I care? "
"I hope you will be better soon."
"Yes, better or worse by and by. What do I care?"
"Can I do anything for you? "
"Yes."
"What is it?"
