Nd the young Willamette runner sitting on a log by the path, looking even more woebegone than he had the day before. Cecil stopped to inquire how he was. "_Cultus_ [bad]," was grunted in response. "Did you see the races?" "Races bad. What do I care?" "I hope you will be better soon." "Yes, better or worse by and by. What do I care?" "Can I do anything for you?" "Yes." "What is it?" "Go." And he dropped his hand upon his knees, doubled himself together, and refused to say another word. As Cecil turned to go he found Multnomah standing close by, watching him. "Come," said the stern despot, briefly. "I want to talk with you." He led the way back through the noisy encampment to the now deserted grove of council. Everything there was quiet and solitary; the thick circle of trees hid them from the camp, though its various sounds floated faintly to them. They were quite alone. Multnomah seated himself on the stone covered with furs, that was