By an effort the speaker seemed to rouse himself. He stared strangely about the room. “There was a little boy once,” he said, and his voice had grown dreamy, slightly high in pitch, “and this little boy held his hand out toward the flames, nearer,—I saw it—the fire was so pretty, so warm, it danced, purred, sparkled. His hand crept nearer, nearer. His father watched him. At the last moment he caught him and pulled him away. The child cried then, he struggled in his father’s arms, he pushed away from him, he fought. Again he reached out toward the flame. But finally he looked up into the man’s face and suddenly it seemed to dawn on him that, although he could not understand, this was indeed his father, old and wise and loving; and that he, by comparison, was only a little misguided child....” The strange, vibrant voice dwindled, broke. The speaker made a wide gesture toward the attentive inspector, held it while the interpreters got forth in English his last sentence. Then he sank back into his old place against the wall; with one bent hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. A faint sound of muttering passed over the room; old fierce eyes were veiled, young keen ones peered incredulously. But the inspector was on his feet on the instant, his hand outstretched to grasp the golden moment. “There is no more to be said,” he cried. “Our ears are ringing with words. Our hearts are full. I have here, prepared, a paper. Let those who for their own good and the good of their children are of a mind to sell, now sign it.” Slowly, amidst moving and murmuring, the long paper, in the hands of one of the interpreters, made its deliberate rounds. Difficult signatures were inscribed in slow succession. Ancient, unaccustomed hands, deft enough with spear or bow, grasped awkwardly the pen and with it made their wavering “mark.” Some there were of the old men, indeed the majority of them, who wrapping their blankets about them arose, and shambling, withdrew, aloof and soundless. Like a shaken kaleidoscope the council broke up. The inspector leaned back in his chair, a hand shielding the working of his mouth. His eyes searched the variegated, dissolving throng. The stenographer, still seated and playing with his idle pencil, shot him an understanding glance. Later the Half-breed, standing on the board walk outside the trading store, a box of crackers in one hand, a paper containing pickles in the other, was lunching heartily. Suddenly he shifted everything into his left hand and strode down into the road. For in company with his wife and a young son the last of the speakers was passing. The Half-breed’s extended hand grasped the Indian’s. “I thank you for what you said,” he cried. “It was a noble thing to have done. You faced them all; the old timers, the chiefs, public opinion, prejudice. And you won. It was a brave act.”