The day, as we have already intimated, was unusually hot, even for the month of June.  As the hours advanced, a sultry and slumbrous silence filled the air, which quivered with the heat.  Clouds began to collect in the northwest, and to roll up higher and higher towards the zenith, in immense waves, which darkened momently, until half the heavens seemed covered with a pall.  The lightning began to play more frequently over the surging blackness, and the mutterings of the thunder became every instant louder.  Ohquamehud was not altogether unaware of the approaching storm, but, engaged in the solemn rite, the appearances of the clouds had not attracted as much of his attention as otherwise they would have done.  At the instant he threw the tobacco into the fire, the blackness of the clouds was intensest, and a grim silence, as if nature were waiting in anxious expectation of some grand event, brooded over the earth interrupted only by the shout of the cataract; then, a thunderbolt blazed almost in the eyes of the Indian, followed, instantly, by a crash, as if the solid rocks were splintered into fragments, and by a torrent of rain, pouring, not in drops, but, in one continuous flood.  For a few moments, the rain continued falling violently, then gradually slackened and ceased.  The lightning glittered less frequently; the threatenings of the thunder became less distinct, and the clouds rolled up their dark standards and dispersed, disappearing in the depths of the unfathomable sky.

The Indian, meanwhile, remained immovable, staring at the fire in which the rain hissed as it fell.  Thus, like a statue, he stood, until the storm had rolled away; then, recovering from his stupefaction, he turned, despondingly, from the heap of ashes.  His offering, then, had been rejected.  The Manito either could not or would not assist him.  Onontio bore a charmed life.  He was a great medicine, beyond the power of his vengeance.  Ohquamehud, with a frown upon his brow, dark as the folds of the departing clouds, strode several steps from the rock, when, turning, as if struck by a sudden thought, he commenced searching in the ashes.  The surface, of course, was soaked; but, as he penetrated deeper, they were drier, and at the bottom he found unextinguished coals.  He carefully searched round, to discover if any portion of the tobacco was unconsumed, but could find none.  The offering had not, then, been rejected.  The Manito had accepted it.  It was not he who sent the storm.  Perhaps, some other Manito, who, however, was unable to defeat the sacrifice.  The countenance of Ohquamehud brightened, and he began again to collect the brush and scattered sticks.  From hollows, in the butts of old trees, and recesses under projecting cliffs, he succeeded in finding enough dry fuel to start the fire anew, and soon it shot up a bright bold flame as before.  “O, Manito!” he softly said, “thou art not angry—­receive my gift.”  Again, he threw tobacco into the fire, and, this time, no portent interposed.  The greedy flame seized upon the dry leaves, which crackled in the heat, and bore them on its shining billows high into the air.  The fire continued burning till all was consumed, and the heap sent up only a spiral of indistinct smoke.