He was interrupted here by applause from the Indians.  Looking round he saw Charlie Jackson leading forward old Chief Wolf.

“Chief Wolf wants to say a few words,” cried Charlie.

“The program is closed,” called Levine loudly.

There was a threat in Charlie’s voice.  “He is going to speak!” And there was a threat in the Indian voices that answered from the audience, “Let speak!  Let speak.”

Levine conferred hastily with Farwell and the Indian Agent, then the three with manifest reluctance—­stood back and Charlie led the old Indian to the foot of the platform.

Old Wolf was half blind with trachoma.  He was emaciated with sickness and slow starvation.  Nevertheless, clad in the beaded buckskin and eagle feathers of his youth, with his hawk face held high, he was a heroic figure of a man.

He held up his right hand and began to speak in a trembling old bass, Charlie’s young tenor translating sentence by sentence.  With the first word, the audience became motionless and silent.

“I come from the wick-i-ups of my fathers to say one last word to the whites.  I am an old, old man.  The last winter was bitter hard and I may never see another July sun.  I have lived too long.  I have seen my race change from young men strong and daring as eagles, as thrifty and fat as brown bears, to feeble yellow wolves fit only to lap the carrion thrown them by the whites, and to lie in the sun and die.

“And I say to you whites, you have done this.  You have moved us on and on, promising always that each resting place shall be ours forever.  You swore by your God, in solemn council, that we could keep this reservation forever.  With room for all the peoples of the world here, you could not find room for the Indian.  You are a race of liars.  You are a race of thieves.  You have debauched our young men with your women.  You have ruined our daughters with your men.  You have taken our money.  And now you are entering our last home with the hand of desolation.  When the enemy enters the abiding place, the dweller is doomed.  But I place the curse of the Indian Spirit on you and the land you are stealing.  Some day it will be done to you as you have done to us.  Some day—­”

Levine stepped forward.  “Jackson, take that Indian away,” he commanded.

An angry murmur came from the Indians in the audience.  A murmur that as Levine laid hold of old Wolf’s arm, grew to strange calls.  There was a surging movement toward the platform.  Billy jumped on a box that he had found for a seat for Lydia.

“Charlie!” he roared, “Charlie!  Remember there are women and children in this crowd.”

“What do I care for your women and children?” shouted Charlie.

Then his glance fell on Lydia’s golden head.  She waved her hand to him beseechingly.  Charlie hesitated for a moment, then spoke loudly in Indian to the crowd, and led old Wolf from the platform.  The movement forward of the Indians ceased.  The whites moved out of the crowd and for a moment there was a complete segregation of Indians and whites.