“My father,” she said sorrowfully, “Wallulah has tried to love those things, but she cannot. She cannot change the heart the Great Spirit has given her. She cannot bring herself to be a woman of battle any more than she can sound a war-cry on her flute,” and she lifted it as she spoke.
He took it into his own hands.
“It is this,” he said, breaking down the sensitive girl in the same despotic way in which he bent the wills of warriors; “it is this that makes you weak. Is it a charm that draws the life from your heart? If so, it can be broken.”
Another moment and the flute would have been broken in his ruthless hands and its fragments flung into the lake; but Wallulah, startled, caught it from him with a plaintive cry.
“It was my mother’s. If you break it you will break my heart!”
The chief’s angry features quivered at the mention of her mother, and he instantly released the flute. Wallulah clasped it to her bosom as if it represented in some way the mother she had lost, and her eyes filled with tears. Again her father’s hand rested on her head, and she knew that he too was thinking of her mother. Her nature rose up in revolt against the 82 Indian custom which forbade talking of the dead. Oh, if she might only talk with her father about her mother, though it were but a few brief words! Never since her mother’s death had her name been mentioned between them. She lifted her eyes, pathetic with three years’ hunger, to his. As their glances met, it seemed as if the veil that had been between their diverse natures was for a moment lifted, and they understood each other better than they ever had before. While his look imposed silence and sealed her lips as with a spoken command, there was a gleam of tenderness in it that said, “I understand, I too remember; but it must not be spoken.”
There came to her a sense of getting closer to her father’s heart, even while his eyes held her back and bade her be silent.
At length the chief spoke, this time very gently.
“Now I shall talk to you not as to a girl but as to a woman. You are Multnomah’s only child. When he dies there will be no one but you to take his place. Are your shoulders strong enough to bear the weight of power, the weight that crushes men? Can you break down revolt and read the hearts of plotters,—yes, and detect conspiracy when it is but a whisper in the air? Can you sway council and battle to your will as the warrior bends his bow? No; it takes men, men strong of heart, to rule the races of the Wauna. Therefore there is but one way left me whereby the line of Multnomah may still be head of the confederacy when he is gone. I must wed you to a great warrior who can take my place when I am dead and shelter you with his strength. Then the name and the power of Multnomah will still live 83 among the tribes, though Multnomah himself be crumbled into dust.”
She made no reply, but sat looking confused and pained, by no means elated at the future he had described.