The wild dancers began their motions.  The Spirit or Tamanous dance awakened a frenzy, and all were now impatient for the dance of the Evil Spirits to begin.

The moon hung low over the plateau and the river.  The fires were kindled, and the smoke presently gave a clouded gold color to the air.

The biters were out, running hither and thither after their manner, and filling the air with hideous cries.

All was expectation, when the old chief of the Cascades stepped upon the platform, and said: 

“Listen, my children—­listen, O sons of the warriors of old.  Twice four times sixty seasons, according to the notch-sticks, have the wings of wild geese cleaved the sky, and all these years I have lived in peace.  My last moon has arisen—­I have seen the smile of the Great Spirit, and I know that the last moon hangs over my head.

“Warriors, listen!  You have always obeyed me.  Obey me once more.  Dance not the dance of the Evil Spirits to-night.  Let me die in peace.  Let not blood stain my last days.  I want you to remember the days of Umatilla as the days of corn and maize and the pipes of peace.  I have given you all I have—­my days are done.  You will respect me.”

There were mutterings everywhere, suppressed cries of rage, and sharp words of chagrin and disappointment.  The old chief saw the general dissatisfaction, and felt it like a crushing weight upon his soul.

“I am going to light the pipe of peace,” said he, “and smoke it now before you.  As many of you as love Umatilla, light the pipes of peace.”

Not a light glimmered in the smoky air.  There were words of hate and suppressed cries everywhere.  A circle was forming, it widened, and it seemed as though the dreaded dance was about to begin in spite of the command of the old chief.

Suddenly a form in white stood beside Umatilla.  It was Gretchen.  A white arm was raised, and the martial strain of the “Wild Hunt of Lutzow” marched out like invisible horsemen, and caused every Indian to listen.  Then there were a few sharp, discordant strains, and then the Traumerei lifted its spirit-wings of music on the air.

[Music:  Tranmerei.

BY ROBERT SCHUMANN, SIMPLIFIED BY F. BRANDEIS.]

[Music]

[Music]

The murmurs ceased.  The plain grew still.  “Romance” followed, and then the haunting strain of the Traumerei rose again.  It ceased.  Lights began to glimmer here and there.  Peace-pipes were being lighted.

“You have saved your people,” said Umatilla.  “Play it again.”

Again and again the dream-music drifted out on the air.  The plain was now filled with peace-pipes.  When the last blended tones died away, the whole tribe were seated on the long plateau, and every old warrior was smoking a pipe of peace.