"Thou hast shown me my duty by the lips of the Indian, and I will perform it. I will tear this forbidden love from my heart. Father, help me. Once before I resolved to do this and failed. Help me that I fail not now. Give me strength. Give me the mastery over the flesh, O God! Help me to put this temptation from me. Help me to fulfil my mission." The struggle was long and doubtful, but the victory was won at last. When Cecil arose from his knees, there was the same set and resolute look upon his face that was there the morning he entered the wilderness, leaving friends and home behind him forever,--the look that some martyr of old might have worn, putting from him the clinging arms of wife or child, going forth to the dungeon and the stake. "It is done," murmured the white lips. "I have put her from me. My mission to the Indians alone fills my heart. But God help her! God help her!" For the hardest part of it all was that he sacrificed her as well as himself. "It must be," he thought; "I must give her up. I will go now and tell her; then I will never look upon her face again. But oh! what will become of her?" And his long fingers were clinched as in acutest pain. But his sensitive nerves, his intense susceptibilities were held in abeyance by a will that, once roused, was strong even unto death. He went out. It was dark. Away to the east Mount Hood lifted its blazing crater into the heavens like a gigantic torch, and the roar of the eruption came deep and hoarse through the stillness of night. Once, twice it seemed to Cecil that the ground trembled slightly under his feet. The Indians were huddled in groups watching the burning crest of the volcano. As the far-off flickering light fell on their faces, it showed them to be full of abject fear. "It is like the end of the world," thought Cecil. "Would that it were; then she and I might die together." He left the camp and took the trail through the wood to the trysting-place; for, late as it was, he knew that she awaited him. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE DARK. There is not one upon life's weariest way, Who is weary as I am weary of all but death. SWINBURNE. The grim sentinels by the pathway, who had been so reluctant to let Cecil pass the day before, were still more reluctant this evening. One of them planted himself in the trail directly in front of Cecil, and did not offer to let him go on, but stood sullenly blocking the way. Cecil touched the warrior's arm and bade him stand aside. For an instant it seemed that he would refuse, but his superstitious respect for the white _tomanowos_ overcame his obstinacy,--and he stepped unwillingly back. But as Cecil went on he felt, and felt rightly, that they would not let him pass again,--that the last act, be it what it might, in his love drama, was drawing to a close.