The war-chief left the grove as soon as he had dismissed the council. Tohomish went with him. For some distance they walked together, the one erect and majestic, the other gliding like a shadow by his side.
At length Multnomah stopped under a giant cottonwood and looked sternly at Tohomish.
“You frightened the council to-day with bad mimaluse [death] talk. Why did you do it? Why did you bring into a council of warriors dreams fit only for old men that lie sleeping in the sun by the door of the wigwam?”
“I said what my eyes saw and my ears heard, and it was true.”
“It cannot be true, for the Great Spirit has said that the Willamettes shall rule the tribes as long as the bridge shall stand; and how can it fall when it is a mountain of stone?”
A strange expression crossed Tohomish’s sullen face.
“Multnomah, beware how you rest on the prophecy of the bridge. Lean not your hand on it, for it is 70 as if you put it forth to lean it on a coiled rattlesnake.”
“Your sayings are dark,” replied the chief impatiently. “Speak plainly.”
Tohomish shook his head, and the gloomy look habitual to him came back.
“I cannot. Dreams and omens I can tell, but the secret of the bridge is the secret of the Great Spirit; and I cannot tell it lest he become angry and take from me my power of moving men with burning words.”