acknowledgement in the eye of this fair young Hagar more than repaid him. That she was a bondwoman, a captive enslaved, he knew by those unmistakable signs so easily read by the initiated.
This tribe had not escaped from the ravages of the dreadful "Coldsticks," a disease that had greatly reduced the tribes of Oregon, not only in numbers, but in aggressive virility. It had consequently proved a potent ally to the Americans who had come to share their country with them, and who were rapidly taking the lion's share. Mourning for the dead and dying was heard on every side. No need of hired mourners here, for all were bereaved alike. Minto's companion of the morning, the chief's son and heir, had been summoned home because the old chief himself had at last succumbed to this fatal malady. All the great keel-al-lys had been banished amid the curses of their people, for neither their medicines nor their weird machinations could ease the sufferings of the great father, and he was only waiting for the coming of his son before going to the great "Sah-la-tyee." The old chief lay on a bed of skin in his capacious lodge. He might have been thought an old Roman hero dying in the midst of his camp. Not only was the resemblance in the barbaric grandeur of his surroundings, but in the figure and visage of this old warrior. The cast of the features would have been Roman had they not been Indian. There was a massive grandeur that bespake strength, leadership and greatness of soul. The stalwart figure lay motionless while the longing eyes were turned toward the entrance. His look brightened as his son entered with bowed head. The attendant squaws retired, leaving the two together with no other presence than the slim figure of an Indian boy, who sat in the corner of the lodge, his great dark eyes fixed in unutterable sadness on the dying chief. It was not all grief at the loss of his master that brought that look of despair on the young face. The boy knew that, if his master died, he, as his favorite slave, must go with him to attend him in his spirit world. The old chief talked in broken uneven tones to his son upon whom was to fall the mantle of his authority, while the young prince sat, his head dropped upon his knees, his proud dignity all gone. The tones grew weaker and soon ceased, but the mourner sat there, the personification of manly grief. At sundown a wail from the squaws outside the lodge announced to the Indians that their chief was dead. The low chanting wail was taken up and sped on and on until it encircled the entire camp. A slight girlish figure darted from one of the huts and crouched against the wall of the chief's lodge, where sat the silent figure of the slave boy. Softly the girl called, "Talax, are you there?" "Yes, my sister." "Are you afraid?" "No. Talax is the son of a brave warrior and chief of a mighty people; I want to live to take my sister back to our father's lodge, and 'tis hard to die bound and a captive." Sobs betrayed the presence of the listener, but no one molested her. When she could speak again she asked: "Is Swift Eagle there?" "Yes, my sister." The girl rose slowly and stole steadily into the lodge and threw herself in the utter abandon of grief at the feet of the silent mourner. He longed to raise the prostrate figure,
