rst, the
war-lust, was set over against the love and forgiveness to which the Great Spirit called them.
The hearts of the Indians were shaken within them. The barbarism which was the outcome of centuries of strife and revenge, the dark and cumu lative growth of ages, was stirred to its core by the strong and tender eloquence of this one man. As he spoke, there came to all those swarthy list eners, in dim beauty, a glimpse of a better life; there came to them a moment s fleeting revelation of something above their own vindictiveness and ferocity. That vague longing, that indefinable wist- fulness which he had so often seen on the faces of his savage audiences was on nearly every face when he closed.
As he took his seat, the tide of inspiration went from him, and a deadly faintness came over him. It seemed as if in that awful reaction the last spark of vitality was dying out; but somehow, through it all, he felt at peace with God and man. A great quiet was upon him; he was anxious for nothing, he cared for nothing, he simply rested as on the living presence of the Father.
Upon the sweet and lingering spell of his closing words came Multnomah s tones in stern contrast.
"What is the word of the council? Shall the white man live or die? "
Snoqualmie was on his feet in an instant.
"Blood for blood. Let the white man die at the torture-stake."
One by one the chiefs gave their voice for death. Shaken for but a moment, the ancient inherited bar barism which was their very life reasserted itself, and
