Then he who had staked it, bitterly lamented, saying, "Alack, my poor
grandmother! Alas, how she will wail when she hears that her
_Weisum_ is dead! Woe the day that ever I did put him up! Alas, my
grandmother!" For all which the cruel Pulowech, the hard-hearted,
impenitent Partridge, did not care the hair of a dead musk-rat.
Now the host, who had thus suddenly grown so tender-hearted, said, "Let
us sail forth upon the river in a canoe." Then they were soon on the
stream, and rushing down a rapid like a dart. And anon they came to a
terribly high cliff, in which there was a narrow cavern into which the
river ran. And on it, thundering through this door of death, borne on a
boiling surge, the bark was forced furiously into darkness. And
Pulowech sat firmly in his seat, and steered the boat with steady,
certain hand; but just as he entered the horrible hole, glancing
around, he saw the sorcerer leap ashore. For the evil man, believing
that no one had ever come alive out of the cavern, had betrayed him
into it.
Yet ever cool and calm the mighty man went on, for danger now was
bringing out all the force of his magic; [Footnote: It is very
characteristic of the heroes of these Indian tales that they gradually
unfold or develop from small characteristics to very great ones. There
is a lesson in this, and it has been perfectly appreciated by poets and
similar sorcerers.
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