Often the old chief brooded over these questions, but it was unknown to all, even to Wallulah. Only his raven tresses, cut close year by year in sign of perpetual mourning, told that he had not forgotten, could never forget.
The swans had taken flight, and their long lingering note sounded faint in the distance.
“You have frightened away my swans,” said Wallulah, looking up at him smilingly.
A shadow crossed his brow.
“Wallulah,” he said, and his voice had now the stern ring habitual to it, “you waste your life with the birds and trees and that thing of sweet sounds,”—pointing to the flute. “Better be learning to think on the things a war-chief’s daughter should care for,—the feast and the council, the war-parties and the welcome to the braves when they come back to the camp with the spoil.”
The bright look died out of her face.
“You say those words so often,” she replied sorrowfully, “and I try to obey, but cannot. War is terrible to me.”
His countenance grew harsher, his hand ceased to stroke her hair.
“And has Multnomah, chief of the Willamettes and war-chief of the Wauna, lived to hear his daughter say that war is terrible to her? Have you nothing of your father in you? Remember the tales of the brave women of Multnomah’s race,—the women 81 whose blood is in your veins. Remember that they spoke burning words in the council, and went forth with the men to battle, and came back with their own garments stained with blood. You shudder! Is it at the thought of blood?”
The old wistful look came back, the old sadness was on the beautiful face again. One could see now why it was there.