Then said Umba, the Ponca woman: “Even now it is the same as then. I have come to take the hard trail with you, even the trail that leads to death, for in all these winters and summers I have taken no man.” And she wiped the blood from his face with her blanket of buckskin. There was an aching in the breast of Wa-choo-bay as he said these words, which the Ponca woman could not understand, though her tongue was one with his: “From now through all the summers and winters that follow, your name shall be Mary.” “Have you heard my words?” he said after a long silence. “I have heard,” said the woman, “and I believe. I alone among all the villagers believe.” “Then shall you follow me on my lonesome trail. I see not its end, for it is in the mist.” * * * * * The days when the prairie was brown passed, and the snows came. And there was one who followed a bitter winter trail. From village to village he went, speaking words of kindness and doing good deeds. But everywhere he was driven from the villages. And there were two who followed him—two faithful disciples—the woman, whose name was changed to Mary, and the wolf. And ever the tall thin man, whose face was pinched with hunger and the cold, gave kind words to those who offered blows. It happened in the time of _Hunga-Mubli_—the time when the snows drift against the north sides of the lodges, that a rumour ran across the prairie—a rumour that a strange sickness had come to the village of the Poncas. It was the sickness called _Gchatunga_, the sickness of the big, red sores. Then Wa-choo-bay and his two disciples turned weary feet toward the stricken village of the Poncas. It was a hard trail, with little food and much cold. And when the three entered the stricken village there was a rejoicing among the Poncas, for they said: “Might it not be that this one whom we have spurned is stronger than we thought?” But Wa-choo-bay sang no medicine-songs; he performed no mystic rites. With tender hands he nursed the sick. Also he knelt beside them and said soft words that were not the words of the prairie. And it happened that the invisible arrows of the Terror fell thicker and thicker among the Poncas. The sickness spread, and the village was filled with the delirious shrieks of the dying. So a great, angry wail went up against Wa-choo-bay. “The sickness grows greater, not less,” said those who were still strong. “This Wa-choo-bay’s words are not true words. There is a black spirit in him.” So it happened that arms that were still strong seized Wa-choo-bay and bound him with thongs of buckskin. Then he was led afar from the village to the bleak, cold summit of a hill. There they planted a post and bound Wa-choo-bay to it. And the woman, whose name was changed to Mary, begged for him, and the wolf, with its four feet huddled together in the snow, mourned with an upward thrusting of the snout. But Wa-choo-bay said: