“Closche nanitch” (look out), he said.  “I am an Umatilla.  Siwash (Indian) will remember.  There are hawks in the sky.”

“Kamooks” (dog), returned Mrs. Woods, defiantly.  “Kamooks.”

She would have said “cultus” had she dared.  “Cultus” is the most insulting word that can be applied to an Indian, and, when it is used, it invites the most deadly revenge.  The word had come to her lips, but she had not the courage to invoke the consequences of such a taunt.

But the young Indian further excited her.  He shook the rod at her, and her passion mastered her prudence.  She struggled with herself, and was silent for a few moments.  But, suddenly catching the young Indian’s eye, which had in it a savage triumph, she exclaimed: 

“Cultus Umatilla—­”

The old chief stepped forward and lifted his hands.

“Pil-pil” (blood), said Benjamin.  “There are hawks in the air—­”

“Be still!” said the chief.

“—­they whet their beaks,” continued Benjamin.  “Potlatch!”

The whole company were filled with excitement or terror.  Gretchen trembled, and began to cry.  Three Indians were seen coming down the trail, and the sight seemed to fill Benjamin with a mysterious delight.  Mrs. Woods saw them with secret fear, and the master with apprehension.  Several of the children began to cry, and there was a look of pain, terror, or distress on all the faces.

Suddenly Gretchen stepped apart from the group and lifted to her shoulder her violin.

A hunting strain rose on the bright morning air.  It seemed like the flight of a singing bird.

The chief’s arms dropped.  The music arose like a sweet memory of all that is good and beautiful.

The three Indians stopped to listen.  The music became more sweet and entrancing.  The anger went out of Benjamin’s face, and there came better feelings into his soul.

The music breathed of the Rhine, of vineyards and festivals, but he understood it not; to him it recalled the mysterious legends of the Umatillas, the mysteries of life, and the glory of the heroes who slept on the island of the dead or amid the sweetly sighing branches of the trees.  The air was the Traumerei.

When the music ceased there was a long silence.  In it Mrs. Woods turned away slowly, with a word of advice to Gretchen that under other circumstances would have appeared amusing: 

“Behave yourself like a lady,” she said, “and remember your bringing up.  Good-morning to ye all.”

The little group watched her as she moved safely away.  A little black bear crossed her path as she was entering the wood, and stopped on the way.  But her steps were growing rapid, and, as she did not seem to regard him as a matter of any consequence, he turned and ran.  The company smiled, and so the peril of the morning seemed to pass away.

The scene would have been comical but for the painful look in the kindly face of the old Chief of the Cascades.  He had come toward the school-house with high hopes, and what had happened caused him pain.  The word “Potlatch,” spoken by the Indian boy, had caused his brow to cloud and his face to turn dark.