She was attired in a simple dress of some oriental fabric. Her form was small and delicately moulded; her long black hair fell in rich masses about her shoulders; and her profile, turned toward him, was sweetly feminine. The Indian type showed plainly, but was softened with her mother’s grace. Her face was sad, with large appealing eyes and mournful lips, and full of haunting loveliness; a face whose strange mournfulness was deepened by the splendor of its 78 beauty; a face the like of which is rarely seen, but once seen can never be forgotten.
There was something despondent even in her pose, as she sat with her shoulders drooping slightly forward and her dark eyes fixed absently on the swans, watching them through the bending reeds. Now one uttered its note, and she listened, seeming to vibrate to the deep, plaintive cry; then she raised to her lips a flute that she held in her hands, and answered it with a perfect intonation,—an intonation that breathed the very spirit of the swan. So successful was the mimicry that the swans replied, thinking it the cry of a hidden mate; and again she softly, rhythmically responded.
“Wallulah!” said the chief.
She sprang to her feet and turned toward him. Her dark face lighted with an expressive flash, her black eyes shone, her features glowed with joy and surprise. It was like the breaking forth of an inner illumination. There was now nothing of the Indian in her face.
“My father!” she exclaimed, springing to him and kissing his hand, greeting him as her mother had taught her to do from childhood. “Welcome! Were you searching for me?”
“Yes, you were well hidden, but Multnomah is a good hunter and can always track the fawn to its covert,” replied the chief, with the faint semblance of a smile. All that there was of gentleness in his nature came out when talking with his daughter.
“You have come from the council? Are you not weary and hungry? Come to the lodge, and let Wallulah 79 give you food, and spread a mat for you to rest upon.”
“No, I am hungry only to see Wallulah and hear her talk. Sit down on the log again.” She seated herself, and her father stood beside her with an abstracted gaze, his hand stroking her long, soft tresses. He was thinking of the darker, richer tresses of another, whose proud, sad face and mournful eyes with their wistful meaning, so like Wallulah’s own, he, a barbarian prince, could never understand.
Although, according to the superstitious custom of the Willamettes, he never spoke the name of Sea-Flower or alluded to her in any way, he loved his lost wife with a deep and unchanging affection. She had been a fair frail thing whose grace and refinement perplexed and fascinated him, moving him to unwonted tenderness and yearning. He had brought to her the spoils of the chase and of battle. The finest mat was braided for her lodge, the choicest skins and furs spread for her bed, and the chieftainess’s string of hiagua shells and grizzly bear’s claws had been put around her white neck by Multnomah’s own hand. In spite of all this, she drooped and saddened year by year; the very hands that sought to cherish her seemed but to bruise; and she sickened and died, the delicate woman, in the arms of the iron war-chief, like a flower in the grasp of a mailed hand.
Why did she die? Why did she always seem so sad? Why did she so often steal away to weep over her child? Was not the best food hers, and the warm place by the lodge fire, and the softest bearskin to rest on; and was she not the wife of Multnomah,—the 80 big chief’s woman? Why then should she droop and die like a winged bird that one tries to tame by tying it to the wigwam stake and tossing it food?