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 barbarism which was their very life reasserted itself, and they could decide no other way. One, two, three of the sachems gave no answer, but sat in silence. They were men whose hearts had been touched before by Cecil, and who were already desiring the better life They could not condemn their teacher.
At length it came to Tohomish. He arose. His face, always repulsive, was pallid now in the extreme. The swathed corpses on _mimaluse_ island looked not more sunken and ghastly.
He essayed to speak; thrice the words faltered on his lips; and when at last he spoke, it was in a weary, lifeless way. His tones startled the audience like an electric shock. The marvellous power and sweetness were gone from his voice; its accents were discordant, uncertain. Could the death's head before them be that of Tohomish? Could those harsh and broken tones be those of the Pine Voice? He seemed like a man whose animal life still survived, but whose soul was dead.
What he said at first had no relation to the matter before the council. Every Indian had his _tomanowos_ appointed him by the Great Spirit from his birth, and that _tomanowos_ was the strength of his life. Its influence grew with his growth; the roots of his being were fed in it; it imparted its characteristics to him. But the name and nature of his _tomanowos_ was the one secret that must go with him to the grave. If it was told, the charm was lost and the _tomanowos_ deserted him.
Tohomish's _tomanowos_ was the Bridge and the foreknowledge of its fall: a black secret that had darkened his whole life, and imparted the strange and mournful mystery to his eloquence. Now that the Bridge was fallen, the strength was gone from Tohomish's heart, the music from his words.