I nodded of course. There are a great many to the left of the trail.

"Then the scalp told her, 'Crawl into a rabbit-hole under the tree.' You know the hole, don't you?"

I said yes to this query also. Around Cochiti there are perhaps hundreds of rabbit-burrows; and it might have been one of those, although after a full century a rabbit's hole is not supposed to be apparent. The narrator was satisfied, nevertheless, for I had assented.

"It is well; but as the woman looked at that hole she was frightened and replied, 'It is too small.' 'Creep into it,' ordered the scalp. 'I cannot even get my head into it,' objected the koitza from Cochiti. 'Creep in quick, they come!' the scalp cried. The woman tried, and the opening became larger and larger. First she found room for her head, afterward for her shoulders; lastly her whole body was inside. As soon as she was within, the hole closed again and appeared as small as before. Was not that wonderful?"

I thought it was strange indeed, exceedingly wonderful. I could not refrain from asking my friend,—

"But was it really so?"

"So the old men are telling, those from many years ago. It must be true. Therefore don't disturb me in my speech, and listen. The Navajos came on. They saw that the tracks stopped. They jumped from their horses, and the woman heard them go about searching, complaining, howling, scolding. At last they mounted their horses again and rode off. When all was quiet the scalp spoke, 'Sister, they have gone; get out now and let us return to your people.' With this the hole opened; the woman crept out and ran and ran as fast as she could. When she reached the Canada de la Peralta, the scalp spoke for the last time, saying to her, 'Sister, now you are safe; henceforth I shall speak no more.' And so it was. On the other side of the ravine stood her own husband. He recognized her at once. They went together to the houses, where she lived for many years."

He paused and looked at me, scanning my face to see the impression made by his tale. Then he continued,—

"You see now, sa uishe, how the scalp saved her to whom it belonged. Therefore we take ahtzeta, for as long as the spirit is not at Shipapu it follows him who has taken the scalp, and serves and helps him. And the strength, wisdom, and knowledge of him whose scalp has been taken, hereafter belong to the man who took it; they increase his power and make the tribe more powerful."

* * * * *

The appearance of the Rito from above presented at first sight nothing startling. From the tall building thin films of smoke arose, but no flames were visible. The house of the Corn clan seemed inhabited, for people stood on its roof. As the returning warriors grouped themselves on the brink to look down into the valley, those below stood still, gazing at them. Then they broke out into a plaintive wail; the women tore their hair, shrieked, screamed, and wept. The men above gazed and listened in silence. Very few men were seen in the vale. The tribe of the Queres seemed divided into two parties, the women lamenting below, the men, like dark, blood-stained statues, standing high above them, posted on yellowish rocks among the shrubbery.

Kauaitshe told Tyope to rest, and he willingly complied. His figure appeared less conspicuous when he sat down. Around the two the others gathered, except the Hishtanyi, who was slowly descending the slope alone, eager to hear the story of the people's misfortunes. Kauaitshe began,—

"It was yesterday, and the sun had not yet come up." He heaved a deep sigh. "All the Koshare were in the estufa over there," he pointed at the cliffs to his right; "the makatza and our koitza were grinding corn; many also had gone to the brook to wash away sadness and grief. Most of them, mainly those of Tanyi, Huashpa, and our women, bathed higher up beyond the fields; some farther down. Shotaye was not among them; nobody knows what has become of her."

Tyope twitched nervously. He knew where the woman had gone.

"Hayoue," the man from Tzitz proceeded, "was the only one who carried weapons. He had gone out very early with Okoya, the youth from Tanyi who is his brother's child. They had started while it was yet night, following the tshinaya up to the top of the rocks. As soon as it became light they noticed tracks and heard sounds that told them that there were Moshome about. They went around by the south, and as it began to dawn they stood there;" he pointed to a spot on the southern mesa directly opposite the big house and facing the latter. "That saved us," he cried; "if Hayoue had not stood there to watch, we should all have died!"

Tyope could not help contrasting the watchfulness of Hayoue with his own supercilious negligence. Yes indeed, it was all over with him; he was good for nothing any more.

"I was in the katityam," Kauaitshe went on, "when I heard the yells of the savages in the corn below. They had concealed themselves there over night, and as soon as the people came forth from their homes unarmed, not thinking of any danger, they rushed upon them and into the big house. I grasped uishtyak and the club, and ran for the stream. There everybody was screaming; some were running this way, others fled that way, but none could get back to the cliffs, none into the houses, for the Moshome stood between them and their homes. They fled toward the south into the kote as a mountain sheep runs from the panther. But as tyame shoots down upon a hind, so the enemies flew after them, scattering them in every direction. All this happened so quickly, brother, that I was not half way down when it was over, and a few of the Dinne rushed up to kill me. They were going to the caves to slaughter the people. I ran back and hid myself, and as they came up I shot at one of them so that he died. The Cuirana Naua killed another; the others ran away. We took their ahtzeta and kept guard over the caves, but for what? There was nobody left of Tzitz hanutsh except a few old women and Ciay Tihua, the little boy. Go down we could not, for below was such a noise,—such fighting, struggling, shouting, and wailing! The Moshome tore the firebrands from the hearths, set fire to the beams, dragged the cloth and the hides into the court-yard and burned them there. Fire came out of the big house, and great was the smoke and black! In the smoke we could see how the shuatyam were dancing on the roofs, and how they threw the dead down upon the ground so that their bodies rattled and the blood spurted and spattered everywhere. Satyumishe, it was sad, very sad; but I could not help, nor could the Naua, for we were alone. Still I have one scalp," he added with simple satisfaction. "Hayoue has many, many! How many have you brought home?"

Tyope cast his eyes to the ground.

"None," he breathed; he could not conceal his contrition and shame. Kauaitshe made no remark. He was not malicious.

"From the great house they ran into that of Tyame hanutsh. There they killed your wife."

"And Mitsha, my daughter?" Tyope asked at last.

"Mitsha was at the brook, and fled with the others. Nacaytzusle, the fiend, was after her to catch her, but he caught her not. Hayoue told us afterward that Okoya Tihua killed the savage just as he had overtaken the girl. Okoya is strong and good; he will become a great warrior, like sa umo the maseua. That is, if he still live."

At last a ray of light seemed to penetrate the darkness that shrouded Tyope's heart. Nacaytzusle was dead! The dangerous accomplice, the only one who might have told about Tyope's attempted conspiracy with the Navajos, was forever silenced. He felt relieved also to think that Mitsha had not become a prey to the savage, and it pleased him to hear Okoya praised. If the youth had still been at the Rito he might have become a support for him.

"Where is Okoya?" he anxiously inquired.

"In the mountains or dead," was the reply. "When the women fled up to the mesa, Hayoue and Okoya ran to meet them. But the Moshome were too many, and the two became separated. Okoya killed the shuatyam, the Navajo boy. He went close to him and struck him with his club till he died. So Hayoue says. Hayoue remained behind; he kept back the Dinne and then came down through the enemy—how I do not know—and protected the katityam, helping the Koshare. All the Moshome who entered the house of the Eagles—twelve of them—were killed inside; their scalps are with us. And when the others saw it they ran out of the big house; but Hayoue and the men followed and killed nine ere they could hide on the Kauash."

"So you have taken many ahtzeta?" one of the bystanders asked.

Kauaitshe began to count, "Eleven—two—twelve—nine; thirty-four," he concluded, adding, "without those that Okoya may have if he be alive."

An exclamation of admiration and a grunt of satisfaction sounded from the lips of those present. But they became silent and sad again at once, for they, the warriors, had only eight or nine all told.

Kauaitshe's pride and exultation could not last long. He bethought himself of the losses, and continued in a tone of sadness,—

"But we have lost many, many. Nearly one hundred of our people have gone over to Shipapu, and twice as many are now in the woods, hungry and forlorn, or the Moshome have taken them with them. Luckily, they are mostly women. Hardly more than twenty of the men can have died, for it may be that Okoya is still alive. Of these, sixteen were Koshare; and the Shkuy Chayan is no more." He cast a glance of sincere pity at Tyope. The latter said nothing, and all the others stared in mournful silence.

The lamentations below had gone on uninterruptedly. Corpses might be seen lying on the roofs, others partly hanging down over the walls. Two men were carrying a dead body toward the caves of the Turquoise people. In the distance a group was seen dragging another corpse up the gorge. Below the house of Yakka hanutsh there stood a group of men, their faces turned toward the brink of the mesa.

The nashtio of the Water clan rose, and pointed at the group.

"There stand Hayoue, the Shikama Chayan, the three Yaya, the Hotshanyi, Shaykatze, and Uishtyaka; and see, the Hishtanyi Chayan is down on the Tyuonyi already, and goes up to them. Let us go now, and"—he turned to Tyope—"you, brother, tell us what you have achieved and how you all have fared. We cannot receive you as it behooves us; there is too much mourning on the Tyuonyi. The Shiuana have punished us so that we cannot be merry and glad. Therefore I have been sent to receive you, for the men are few in the vale and"—he looked around as if counting the bystanders—"of those that went out to avenge the death of our father not many have come back either."

In dreary silence they began to move downward. Not a shout, not a whoop, heralded their coming; not a scalp was waved on high in triumph. In dead silence those below watched the sombre forms as they descended slowly, clambering over rocks, rustling through bushes, and coming nearer and nearer. From the caves issued plaintive wails; from the big house moans and subdued crying ascended,—the lament over the dead on the Rito.

* * * * *

More than a week has elapsed since the return of the discomfited war-party to their desolate and ravished homes. It is August, and the rains have fallen abundantly. What little was left of the growing crops, what the torrent has not destroyed and the Navajos did not lay waste, looks promising. But this remainder is slight, and there is anxiety lest the surviving inhabitants may starve in the dreary winter. The formalities of mourning have therefore been performed hastily and superficially. The remaining Koshare have retired into the round grotto, there to fast and to pray for the safe maturity of the scanty crops. But Tyope is not among them. His accomplice, the Naua, has forsaken him. He, too, has become convinced that everything is lost for them, and he has thrown away Tyope like a blunt and useless tool. Hereafter the Naua attends strictly to his official duties, and to nothing beyond his duties. For the Shkuy Chayan is dead, the Shikama Chayan has no love for him, and the old Hishtanyi, who has seen more of the real nature of events than any on the Rito, went over to the cave of the old sinner and spake to him a few words. The "old sinner" comprehended; he has gone back to his duties and attends to them exclusively.

Afterward the Chayan called upon the chief penitent, or Hotshanyi, and spoke to him long and earnestly; after him to the shaykatze and the uishtyaka; lastly with all three yaya together. Then the yaya went into retirement, all three in the same place. They are fasting, doing penance, mercilessly mortifying themselves, in order that Those Above may forgive the tribe and suffer it to prosper again.

All this has taken place in silence and secret, and nothing has come to the surface. The only thing that has become public is a general council, not merely of the delegates of clans with the yaya, but of the tribe. Hayoue assisted, with Zashue his brother. Tyope was present also, but he said nothing, and nobody requested him to speak. He was not outlawed; no punishment was dealt to him; he was simply suffered to remain on that lower level to which he had naturally dropped.

The principal question agitating the council was the nomination of a maseua, or head war-chief. The caciques intimated that Hayoue would be their choice, and all concurred in the selection. But Hayoue positively declined, insisting that his clan had virtually ceased to exist on the Rito, and that it was his duty to follow his people in their distress. Zashue also spoke to the same effect. His wife Say Koitza and his children had disappeared, even to the little girl, whose brains were still clinging to the walls of the big house, against which the enemy had dashed her head. However much the people insisted, Hayoue remained firm in his resolve to go after the fugitives and to save them if possible. Most of the people thought them lost, dead, or captives; but both young men were of the opinion that there were too many of them, and that at least some must have escaped. It was consequently the duty of the two youngest survivors to trace them if possible.

The Hishtanyi Chayan was the first to accede to Hayoue's demands, but conditionally. He insisted that when their duties were fulfilled Hayoue and his brother should return to the Rito with the rescued. But Hayoue refused to consent even to this. The grounds given by him were obvious, though hard to listen to. In case they found a few, he promised to return; but should there be many yet alive he was determined upon founding a new settlement. He reproached the council bitterly for having allowed the lack of arable soil to have been taken as a pretext for depriving his own small clan of its allotment in order to give it to a larger one. That small clan should not come back and again be in the way of the others. "Tzitz hanutsh," said he in closing, alluding to his own performances, "has saved the tribe; it has done its duty. Now we will go and see whether our brethren and sisters are still alive; and in case we find them, seek for another spot where there will be sufficient room for all."

Every one present did not understand these words; but the members of the council knew to what the young man was alluding, and they bowed their heads in shame. Even the Hishtanyi Chayan felt the reproach, for he knew that it was partly his fault, since had he followed the hint dropped by Topanashka, and his own first impressions, all might have taken a different turn. He did not therefore insist any longer, and did not even think it advisable to invoke the will of Those Above in aid of his personal desire. His silence determined the people of the Rito, for they took it for granted that the higher powers approved of Hayoue's resolution to leave.

It may seem strange that the Chayan did not insist upon consulting the Shiuana first, for Hayoue would have been compelled to abide by their final decision. Here the question arises how far the Indian shaman is sincere in his oracular utterances,—how much of his decisions is honest error, and how much of his official acts may be deception or mere jugglery.

In most cases of importance the shaman is honest. He really believes that what he says is the echo from a higher world. This firm belief is the fruit of training; and the voices he hears, the sights he sees when alone with Those Above are the products of honest hallucination. His training and the long and painful discipline he undergoes in rising from degree of knowledge to degree of knowledge, the constant privations and bodily and mental tortures, prepare him for a dreamy state in which he becomes thoroughly convinced that he really is a medium. As such he speaks in council, and he is most thoroughly satisfied that what he says is the truth. Of course there are among them some who are rogues, who profit by the credulity of others, and who even invent tricks in order to fasten their authority upon the people in an illegitimate manner. These tricks themselves are not performed in the majority of cases as conscious sleight of hand. They may have been such at their inception, but their origin has been forgotten by subsequent generations, and nothing has remained but the bare wonderful, inexplicable fact of their performance. Thus they have become in course of time hallowed; and the shaman who causes lightning to flash through a dark room, or corn to grow and mature in the course of one day, honestly believes in the supernatural origin of the trick. Such men are often very punctilious, and while they will go to the direst extremity in what they regard as their duties and privileges, will with equal scruple avoid going a single step beyond. Imbued with an idea that they are the mouth-pieces of Those Above, they listen anxiously to everything that is striking and strange, and attribute to inspiration forcible arguments as well as their own speeches and actions. So it was with the Hishtanyi Chayan. The refusal of Hayoue to accept an honourable charge struck him as being an expression of the will of the Shiuana, against which it was his duty not to protest. When the young man brought forward such strong arguments he was still further confirmed in his belief, and bowed to the inevitable in respectful silence.

At the close of the council the Koshare retired to the estufa, the caciques followed their example, and the Chayan came next. But before he withdrew into privacy, the great medicine-man had a long talk with Hayoue, his object being to strengthen the tie which united the young man with the people of the Rito, and to engage him not to forsake altogether the abode of the spirits of his tribe. Hayoue made no definite promise beyond what he had already pledged himself to at the general meeting.

Hayoue and Zashue had taken leave of the invisible ones as well as of the inhabitants of the Tyuonyi, and ascended to the brink of the southern mesa above the Rito. Here they turned around to look back upon the home to which neither of them was any longer strongly attached. The sun was setting, and they wished to improve the night, for fear that Navajos might still be prowling about on the mesas. At the bottom of the gorge there was little life, compared with the bustle that prevailed in former days. On the plateau the evening breeze fanned the trees; in the east, distant lightning played about sombre clouds.

"The corn-plant is good," Zashue remarked to his brother; "the Zaashtesh will not starve this winter. We have called loudly to Those Above."

"It is well," said the other in a tone of authority, which since his achievements he was wont to assume toward his elder brother; "when the Koshare perform their duty they are precious to the people."

"Without the Cuirana," the elder replied, "the sprouting corn cannot grow." Zashue had conceived a very high opinion of Hayoue, and his weaker mind gladly leaned upon the strong will of the youth. Hayoue started; it was as if a sudden thought struck him. "Look, see how good the Shiuana are! We are leaving the Tyuonyi; and behold, if we find our people there can be no lack of food wherever we dwell. I am Cuirana, you are Koshare. I pray and fast for the growing corn, you do the same for the ripening of the grain. It will be well."

"If Shyuote is alive he will help me." Zashue uttered these words timidly.

"Okoya will help me;" Hayoue spoke with great assurance. "In that case we shall be four already. How often have I told you, satyumishe, that Okoya is good. He is a man; I saw it when he struck Nacaytzusle, the young Moshome."

The elder brother said nothing. He acknowledged the wrong he had done his eldest child. In case Say Koitza, in case Shyuote were still alive, it would be owing to that elder son of his. And his wife, Say Koitza, he longed for now as never before. For her sake he had left everything,—his home, his field. Willingly he abandoned his whole past in order to find her. He regretted all that he had done in that past,—his suspicions, his neglect, his carelessness to her. The fearful visitations of the latter days had changed him completely.

All these thoughts he gathered in one exclamation,—

"If we only find them!"

"Let us go and search," said Hayoue, turning to go. His brother followed him into the woods.

Henceforth we shall have to follow the two adventurers, for a while at least. Therefore we also must take leave of the Rito de los Frijoles. Of its inhabitants nothing striking can hereafter be told. They lived and died in the seclusion of their valley gorge, and neither the Tehuas nor the Navajos molested them in the years following. Tyope continued to vegetate, anxiously taking care to give no occasion for recalling his former conduct. The Naua soon died. The subsequent fate of the tribe is faintly delineated by dim historical traditions, stating that they gradually emigrated from the Rito in various bands, which little by little, in course of time, built the villages inhabited by the Queres Indians of to-day. Long before the advent of the Spaniards, in the sixteenth century of our era, the Rito was deserted and forgotten. The big house, the houses of the Eagles and of the Corn clan, are now reduced to mere heaps of rubbish, overgrown by cactus and bunches of low grass. Most of the cave-dwellings have crumbled also. But the Rito always remains a beautiful spot, lovely in its solitude, picturesque and grand. About its ruins there hovers a charm which binds man to the place where untold centuries ago man lived, loved, suffered, and died as present generations live, suffer, and die in the course of human history.



CHAPTER XX.

Sunshine and showers! A dingy blue sky is traversed by white, fleecy clouds, long mares' tails, on whose border giant thunderclouds loom up, sometimes drifting majestically along the horizon, or crowding upward to spread, dissolve, and disappear in the zenith.

It is the rainy season in New Mexico, with its sporadic showers, its peculiar sunlight, moments of scorching heat, and blasts of cool winds, with thunder overhead. To the right and left rain falls in streaks, but without sultriness, and with no danger from violent wind-storms or cyclones. We are in the beginning of the month of September. It is warm, but not oppressive, and the spot from which we view the scenery around is high, open, and commands a wide extent of country.

We stand on a barren plateau. Lava-blocks are scattered about in confusion, while tall arborescent cacti rise between them like skeletons, and bunches of grass point upward here and there. North of us the mesa expands in monotonous risings and swellings to the foot of a tall, exceedingly graceful cone, whose slopes are dotted with bushes of cedar and juniper. Beyond it are dark humps, denoting by their shape that they are extinct craters. In the distance, west of that beautiful cone, which to-day is called, and very appropriately, the Tetilla, the sinuous profile of a mountain-chain just peeps over the bleak line formed by the mesa and its various corrugations. Nestling within its bosom rests the Rito de los Frijoles.

In the south, dense thunderclouds overhang massive peaks. Only the base of the Sierra de Sandia, of the Old Placeres, and the numerous ranges beyond, is visible, for a heavy shower falls in that direction. In the east a plain sweeps into view, dotted by black specks looming up from a reddish soil. This plain rises gently to the eastward, and abuts against a tall mountain-range whose summits also are shrouded in massive clouds.

We stand on the bleak and wide mesa that interposes itself between the town of Santa Fe and the valley of the Rio Grande. Not a living object, with the exception of wasps and beetles, can be seen; everything appears dull and dead. The thunder roars in the distance.

And yet there is life of a higher order. Two ravens stalk about in an earnest, dignified manner. The birds look exceedingly and comically serious. Their plumage glistens in the subdued light of the sun. They look out for themselves, and care nothing for the remainder of creation. So deeply are they imbued with a sentiment of their own exceptional position in the realm of nature, that they pay no attention to another phase of life that shows itself near by, though not conspicuously.

Over the surface of the mesa are seen here and there almost imperceptible elevations destitute of vegetation. In these slight swellings, apertures are visible. Out of the latter the head of a small animal occasionally protrudes, disappears again, or rises displaying a pair of shovel-like front teeth. Then a worm-like body pushes up from below, and a yellowish figure, half squirrel, half marmot, stands erect on the hillock, and utters a sharp, squealing bark. This barking is answered from a neighbouring protuberance. From each hillock one of these little animals crawls down; and meeting one another half-way, they stand up facing each other, scratch and bite for a moment, then separate and return to their respective cave-dwellings. Other similar creatures wriggle about in the vicinity; the shrill barking sounds far and near. A colony of so-called prairie dogs dwells in the neighbourhood.

To this exhibition of animal life the ravens pay no attention whatever. It is beneath their notice; their aims are of a higher order than those of beings who live upon roots and who burrow for their abode. They live on prey that is far above the simple products of animal industry. Carrion is what they aspire to. Therefore they aspire with a lofty mien, prying and peering in every direction for something fallen. They are not far from the eastern brink of the mesa, where the volcanic flow breaks off suddenly in short, abrupt palisades. Who knows what their keen eyes may have espied along that brink?

Another actor appears upon the scene, a prairie wolf, or coyote; consequently a rival, a competitor of the ravens; for he is in the same business. But he belongs to a higher order; for while the ravens are scavengers, the coyote is a hunter as well. He would even prey upon the birds themselves. As he approaches, with tail drooping and ears erect, and stops to sniff the air and glance about slyly, the ravens hop off sidewise away from the dangerous neighbour. Still they are loath to go, for the wolf may discover something the leavings of which they may perhaps enjoy. But the coyote lies down, with his head between his forepaws, and in this attitude pushes his body forward, almost imperceptibly. Such motions are very suspicious; the scavengers flap their wings, rise into the air, and soar away to some more secure spot.

The coyote, however, seems in no wise disappointed at the departure of the ravens. He pays no attention to their flight, but moves on toward the lava-blocks that indicate the rim of the plateau. There he has noticed something; an object that lies motionless like a corpse. It may be a corpse, and therefore something to prey upon. Nearer the coyote glides. The object is long or elongated. Its colour is lighter than that of the lava-blocks surrounding it, but its farther end is dark. Now that end moves, and the head of an Indian, a village Indian of New Mexico, looms up above the boulders. The coyote has seen enough, for the man is alive, and not carrion. Away the beast trots, with drooping tail and ears.

The Indian, who has been lying there with his face turned to the east, rises to his knees and faces about. His features are those of a man on the threshold of mature age. We know this man! We have seen him before! And yet it cannot be, for how thin, how wan, how hollow the cheeks, how sunken the eyes! The face, notwithstanding the red paint, appears sallow. Still it is an old acquaintance, although since we saw him last he has sadly changed. Now he turns his face to the south, and we catch a glimpse of his profile. It is Zashue Tihua, the Indian from the Rito de los Frijoles, husband of Say Koitza, and father to Okoya and Shyuote.

What is he doing here? It is now more than three weeks since he and his brother Hayoue took leave of the Tyuonyi in order to search for their lost people. They went forth into that limited, yet for the Indian immensely vast, world to-day called central New Mexico. In a month a travelling Indian may easily be hundreds of miles away if unimpeded in his march. But we find him here, barely a day's journey from the Rito. A strong man cannot have spent all this time in going such a little distance. He must have wandered far, strayed back and forth, up and down, perhaps into the western mountains, where the Navajos lurk,—the bad men who frightened his wife and children away from their homes, or who perhaps captured or killed them. Or he may have gone to the south, where the black cloud is hanging, and where it thunders, and the rain-streaks hang like long black veils of mourning. He has perchance tramped down the Rio Grande valley, through sand, by groves of poplar-trees, and where the sand-storms howl and wail. Now he comes back, unrequited for all his labour and sufferings, for those whom he sought are not with him!

His gaze was not directed to the north when the wolf espied him, but to the east. He may be on the homeward stretch, but he has not given up all hope. His eyes look for those whom he has lost; he is loath to give up the search, loath to return alone to the home which the enemy has soiled with the lifeblood of his youngest child. He is changed in appearance, lean, and with hollow burning eyes he gazes at the clouds as if there he might find his missing wife and children.

As he kneels and gazes, another Indian rises from amidst the shaggy blocks of lava a short distance off, stands up, and then sits down upon a rock. He turns his head to the east. He too is gaunt and thin, his features are pale, and his eyes lie deep in their sockets. On his back hangs a shield; but it is soiled, beaten, and perforated. To his arm is fastened a war-club, and the quiver on his back is half-filled with newly made arrows. As this Indian turns his face to the north we recognize him also. It is Hayoue, Hayoue as emaciated and careworn as his brother Zashue. They are alone. Neither has found anything yet.

Zashue rises to go where his brother is sitting. As the latter perceives him he points with his arm to the east. There at the farthest end of the plain, at the foot of the high cloud-veiled mountains, a long row of foot-hills recedes in an angle. To this angle Hayoue is pointing. An untrained eye would have seen nothing but cedar-clad hills and the lower end of slopes dark and frowning, above which seething clouds occasionally disclose higher folds of mountains whose tops are shrouded in mist. But Zashue has no untrained eye; he gazes and gazes; at last he turns around to his brother with an approving nod and says,—

"Fire."

"Puyatye Zaashtesh," Hayoue replies; and each looks at the other inquiringly.

Where we might have seen but the usual dim haze veiling distant objects, they have discovered a bluish tint capping the hills like a pale streak. It denotes the presence of smoke, therefore fire. Not a burning forest, for there is no high timber on that range of foot-hills, but smoke arising from a place where people are dwelling. The roaming mountain Indians, the Apaches or Navajos, settle nowhere permanently. The smoke has not been produced by their straggling camp-fires; it indicates the location of a permanent village. Those village Indians that dwell east of the Rio Grande are Tanos, and the Queres call them Puyatye. There must be a Tano village in that corner far away where the bluish film hovers. Hayoue is right, a Puyatye Zaashtesh stands where to-day lies the capital of New Mexico,—the old Spanish settlement of Santa Fe.

The brothers cast their eyes to the ground; both seem to be in doubt, Zashue is the first to speak.

"Do you suppose that our people might be at that Zaashtesh?"

Hayoue shrugged his shoulders.

"It may be, I don't know."

"Will it be safe for us to go to the Puyatye?" the other inquired doubtfully.

The younger sighs and answers,—

"They have never done wrong to us."

"Still they speak the tongue of the people of Karo."

"It is true, but they live nearer to us."

"But they are Tehuas too, like the people of the north, and—"

Hayoue interrupts him, saying,—

"Our folk have gone to them as often as they wished buffalo-hides, and the Puyatye have received them well, giving them what was right. Why should they now be hard toward us?"

"Still if the Tehuas have gone to see them, saying, 'The Queres from the Tyuonyi came to strike us like Moshome over night; look and see that they do not hurt you also,' and now we come with shield, bow, and arrow, what can the Puyatye think other than that we are Moshome Queres?"

Hayoue feels the weight of this observation; he casts his eye to the ground and remains silent. Zashue continues,—

"It is true that the Moshome Dinne cannot have killed all our people. This we found out on the Rātye," pointing to the Sierra de San Miguel; "ere I killed the old man to take ahtzeta from him, he lifted all of his fingers four times and pointed over here. Do you not think, satyumishe, that he meant to tell me thereby that forty of our people escaped and fled to Hanyi?"

"I do; and that is the reason why I believe we shall find them in Hashyuko,"—the eastern corner, the Queres name for the place where Santa Fe stands,—replied the other, very positively. "Behold, satyumishe, we have searched everywhere we could, have followed every trail we could follow. Nearly all the tracks were those of our people, of that I am sure, and how far have we not gone after them? Ten days at least we were in the mountains on the tracks of the Moshome Dinne. We fought them and took ahtzeta. At last we learned that many of our women and children had been taken by those shuatyam and that we never any more could obtain them, also that Okoya was probably not still alive. Then we went south and saw tracks,—small tracks of children, larger ones of women, and a few that were those of men. We went toward Cuame until we could not see the tracks because it had rained, and the rain had washed them away. To go farther was useless, for whither should we go?"

"There are other Zaashtesh farther down the Rio Grande, so the Naua told me," replied Zashue; "but these dwell far, far away,"—he waved his hand to the south,—"where it is very warm and where there are a great many Moshome."

"Those are too far off," Hayoue said, shaking his head; "our people did not go so far without resting. We must have overtaken them, for we rested not."

The elder brother nodded; he was fully conscious that they had never rested on the journey. He felt it now.

"Therefore, brother," Hayoue went on, "I believe that those whom we look for are there," pointing to the east. "In the Sierra del Valle are only those whom the Moshome have captured; the others must have turned back along the river, crossing it to go to the Puyatye; for there are no Moshome over here, and if the Puyatye speak like the Tehuas, their hearts are different and more like ours. I think we should go to the Zaashtesh yonder, at the foot of the big kote where the snow is hanging. If we do not find them there, then I think we should go farther, as far as where the buffaloes are feeding. There are villages there, too, I have been told, and there our people will be. If we once know which of them are alive and free, we shall also know those who are among the Moshome, and can see what to do for them."

"It strikes me," Zashue still objected, "that if the koitza and the little ones were on this side of the river we must have seen their tracks."

"But it rains, brother," Hayoue replied, looking up at the sky. "The Shiuana send us rain every night and often during the day, and it washes away the footprints. Besides, we have merely followed the river thus far, and our people may have turned inland. There is so much sand on the banks that the rain destroys all foot-marks."

Zashue looked up; a thought had struck him like a flash.

"Have you seen the ravine below here?" He pointed to the south. "How would it do for us to look there? The ravine comes from the river."

"You are right," Hayoue assented, rising and moving slowly on. The strong young man was tired, almost exhausted from endless roaming, searching, spying, and from hunger and thirst combined. Zashue took a more southeasterly direction, so that both struck the brink of the ravine at some distance apart.

From the brink they looked down into a deep cleft, at the bottom of which the little Rio de Santa Fe winds its course toward the Rio Grande. This cleft is the gorge which to-day is called Canon de las Bocas. South of it the plateaus continue with barren undulations and whitish hills. They rise gradually to the base of a sombre mountain cluster, the bulk of which was wrapped in clouds, as well as the huge mass of the Sandia chain to its right. Still farther to the right the Rio Grande valley opened. Sand-whirls chased along that valley to meet a shower which was sending rain-streaks into it. A cloud had meanwhile gathered over the heads of the wanderers, thunder reverberated, and the raindrops began to fall. The men paid no attention; they gazed down at the little torrent beneath, at the groups of poplar-trees on its banks, and at the scattered patches of open ground along its course. Their desire was to descend into the gorge to search for traces of those whom they longed for.

The descent was impracticable from where they had stopped. A rim of vertical cliffs of lava and trap formed the upper border of the cleft. Suddenly Hayoue exclaimed,—

"Umo, they are not down here, or we should see them from above. Let us go farther, where there are no rocks, and where the stream enters the gorge. If our people have come through here we must find their tracks at the outlet."

"It is well," replied Zashue.

The shower drizzled out; its main force was spent on the southern plateaus, and cool gusts of wind blew across to the north side. When the brothers had clambered down the rugged slope covered with scattered lava-blocks to the sandy nook where now stands the hamlet of the "Ciene-quilla," clouds had again lifted over Hashyuko, and on the slope of the high Sierra the bluish cloudlet swam clear and distinct.

Much water ran in the bed of the river at the mouth of the Bocas, and there was no hope of finding any tracks there.

The men staggered up and down, and at last Zashue stood still, bent over, and appeared to examine something. Then he called aloud,—

"Come over here!" With this he raised something from the ground. Hayoue went over to him, and both looked at the object carefully. It was a piece of cloth made of cotton dyed black, of the size of a hand, torn off but recently, and soiled by mud and moisture. Hayoue nodded; the find pleased him.

"That is from our women," said he.

"The women from the Puyatye," Zashue said doubtingly, "wear skirts like our koitza."

"It is so, but the women from Hashyuko do not go so far from their homes now. Nothing is ripe,—neither cactus, figs, nor yucca fruit. What should they come out here for? When do our women ever go so far from the Zaashtesh?"

"Shotaye used to go farther," objected the elder.

"Shotaye," Hayoue muttered, "Shotaye was—you know what she was! There is none like her in the world. What she may be doing in case she is alive, nobody can tell."

"I wish I knew her to be with Say Koitza now," Zashue sighed.

"Shotaye is dead," his brother asserted. "But I believe that this rag is from our people, and you were right in coming hither. Look!" pointing to the entrance of the Bocas, "they came through there and from the west. Even if we find no trace of them I still believe that they went to Hashyuko and that we shall find them there. Let us go ere it is too late!"

The last words were uttered in such a positive tone that Zashue yielded, and followed his brother, who since their discovery again moved with vigorous strides. Since the last evening neither of them had eaten anything, and their meal then had been scanty enough. The discovery had infused new strength into their exhausted bodies, and the brothers walked on, side by side, as if they were well fed and thoroughly rested. Zashue still remained in doubt; he would rather have made further researches. He knew from the talk of old men that the Tanos inhabited villages farther south, and it was possible that the fugitives, afraid of the dispositions of the Puyatye that lived closer to the Tehuas, had avoided them in order to take refuge at a greater distance from the people of the Puye. But above all, Zashue felt strong misgivings in regard to the reception which he and his brother, both armed as they were, might find at Hashyuko.

Under different circumstances he would have gone to the Tanos without any fear, and would have entered the village as a guest. Now, since the Queres of the Rito and the Tehuas had come to blows, it was possible that the latter had informed their relatives in the southeast of what occurred and thus made them suspicious of the Queres. He and his brother carried the implements of war, but they were not in war-paint. That looked very suspicious, and they might be taken for spies; and as soon as they should be noticed some of the Tanos might lie in wait for them with evil intentions. If on the other hand Hayoue was right, then all would be right. But he could not agree with his brother on that point. A certain instinct told him that the fugitives had wandered south instead of east. Nevertheless he yielded willingly to the superior energy and determination of Hayoue. Zashue was a weak man, and glad to lean upon a stronger arm, a more determined will.

Hayoue on his part was fully convinced of the correctness of his views. He had no thought of danger. He reflected, and Zashue had overlooked this important point, that, in case the Tehuas notified the Tanos of recent occurrences, they would not fail to boast of their signal triumph, and to represent the defeat of the Queres as akin to complete destruction. Therefore in what light could he and his brother appear to the people of Hashyuko than as fugitives from a tribe well nigh exterminated? Fugitives of that class are always, even by savages, received and treated as guests. Finally, should it come to blows, Hayoue was ready for them also, to give as well as take.

The distance which separated the two men from their place of destination was about twelve English miles. The plain between the upper, or eastern mouth of the Canon of the Bocas and the foot of the Santa Fe mountain-range rises gradually, and in even but extensive undulations. It is closed to the north by a broad sandy ridge, which skirts the northern bank of the little Santa Fe stream. That ridge extends from the east, where Santa Fe stands, to the volcanic mesa through which the cleft of the Bocas meanders in the west; and the plain lies south of it, dipping in that direction as well as to the west also. Several ravines with sloping borders run through it from east to west; the nearest one south of the Santa Fe river is called Arroyo Hondo. These gorges or channels are dry except in the rainy season, when torrents of water gush down them for a few hours after some exceedingly violent shower in the mountains. The vegetation of the plain consists mainly of bunch-grass, juniper, and tall, arborescent cacti.

Hayoue took the direction to the northeast, keeping between the Santa Fe Creek on their left and the Arroyo Hondo on the right. As often happens during the afternoon, the sky had begun to clear; and as evening approached, the tall Santa Fe Sierra shone out majestically, free from clouds, the top of "Baldy" covered with snow. The high timber on the lower ridges appeared distinct, and the folds of the mountain-sides clothed in vivid green alternated with black yet luminous shadows. A cool wind blew from the south in gusts, and the wanderers hastened their steps lest night should overtake them ere they could reach the village, now distinguishable below the blue cloud of smoke as a reddish protuberance on a bleak hill.

Zashue stood still, and beckoned his brother to do the same and listen. From the direction they were going came faint cries; the brothers looked at each other.

"There are Puyatye over there," said Hayoue.

"Ko!" assented Zashue, then as if making a discovery he added, "They are hunting rabbits and hares."

"You are right, surely they hunt rabbits," said Hayoue, his eyes brightening at the suggestion.

"What shall we do?" Zashue asked.

"We will go to them at once," said the other. "That is very good, very good for us indeed, for if they hunt rabbits all their yaya and nashtio will be there too."

One of the broad swellings which traverse the Santa Fe plain lay between the young men and the place whence the sounds came; it concealed the hunters from their gaze, but the manner in which the cries seemed to shift proved that they were swiftly moving to and fro. Zashue felt greatly relieved, for his explanation that the Tanos might be on a general hunt for rabbits was probably true, and it was a very good sign. The rabbit-hunt is usually a prelude to solemn dances, therefore it was not likely that the Tanos suspected danger or had any knowledge of events at the Puye.

The great rabbit-hunt, still practised by all the Pueblos several times during each year, is a communal undertaking, a religious ceremony, in which not only the men take part, but the women and children also. The object is to obtain the skins which the chief penitents use for some sacramental purpose. It is also a feast and a day of rejoicing and merriment for the whole village. The hunt is under the direction of the principal war captain, and the leading dignitaries share the sport. Long prayers around a fire which is started outside of the pueblo opens the performance. The game is hunted and killed with clubs, and a lively and sometimes amusing rivalry is displayed by both sexes in securing the rabbits, which often gives rise to very ludicrous scenes. Sometimes the hunt is continued for several days in succession.

When the brothers reached the crest of the undulation, they witnessed sights that to a stranger would have been nearly incomprehensible. Men, women, and children were running back and forth in every direction, no longer chasing game, but playing, laughing, romping, with loud and boisterous talk. Small groups were already going home loaded with game, others with empty hands, to the great amusement and merciless jeering of the successful hunters. Among the former were men dressed in the costume of women, while with the lucky ones women in male attire paraded proudly. It was an animated picture spread over a wide expanse, but it was moving back to the village in the east; and when the Indians from the Rito stood still to observe, there remained in their immediate vicinity only a few men in female garb. Beyond them stood a group of five or six persons, laughing and jesting.

Over the broad plain there rested a mild, subdued glow of pleasant twilight; the highest summits of the Sierra glistened in fiery hues.

Hayoue stepped up boldly, his brother keeping alongside watchfully. He was ready, not to flee, but to hide, and use the bow in case of necessity. They were noticed by those standing nearest. The men in women's garb were busy breaking twigs and branches, or cutting them off with stone implements. At the sight of strangers, they suspended work and stared. Hayoue laid aside his bow and quiver, and extended his right hand, calling out,—

"Queres Tyuonyi!"

No answer came. Zashue could not control his mirth at the sight of the men in such guise; he broke out in a ringing laugh, pointed at them, and shouted, "Puyatye!" then to himself with the exclamation, "Koshare!"

The salutations called forth no reply. The Tanos continued to stare. It was not merely astonishment which caused them to remain motionless; there was quite as much embarrassment on their part. For these men in women's wraps had had to assume the costumes as a punishment, because they had allowed women to outwit or out-hunt them in the joint pursuit of the same animal. Whenever a man and a woman, during one of these ceremonial hunts, chase the same rabbit, and the woman succeeds in slaying it, then her male competitor must exchange his dress for that of the successful woman, who in turn proudly, amidst applause and jeerings, assumes the garb of the male. The man thereafter has to go on hunting until he kills a rabbit himself, and can by offering it to the woman reclaim his clothing. All are not lucky enough to succeed, and it happens sometimes that the hunt is over before their efforts are successful. Such unfortunates are required to gather a load of firewood as big as they can carry, and bring it to the house of the woman holding their clothes in pledge. Thereupon the dresses are exchanged, and the night passes in the usual childish amusements for the many, in religious rites for the religious functionaries.

The men first seen by the brothers betrayed by their dress and occupation that they belonged to the unlucky ones. They saw at a glance that the new-comers were village Indians; they also recognized from their behaviour that they came with friendly intentions. This increased their embarrassment, for they knew, or at least supposed, that the strangers would see at once the cause of their strange appearance. So great was their uneasiness, that one of them crouched behind a bush to hide.

Meanwhile all the Tehuas, who had been standing some distance off, came running up, with the exception of one, who was seen going toward the pueblo at full speed. The others held their wooden clubs ready, in case of trouble. Hayoue advanced toward them in his usual unconcerned way, and saluted them with—

"Guatzena, Puyatye!"

Zashue had remained behind, keeping an eye on the weapons which both of them had laid on the ground.

The Tanos whispered and whispered. They evidently guessed at the meaning of Hayoue's words, for one of them stepped up, and replied with the usual compliment in Tehua,—

"Senggerehu."

Each grasped the other's hand. Hayoue uttered "Queres," and pointing to the west, "Tyuonyi."

To this speech the other replied by pointing at himself and at his comrades with the word "Tano;" then at the village, which was still dimly visible in the twilight, "Oga P' Hoge."[12] Thereupon he made the gesture-sign for sleep, and breathed on Hayoue's hand. The latter responded to the compliment and gave Zashue a signal to come nearer. When Zashue rejoined the group they all greeted the Queres in the same manner, and the one who was still holding Hayoue's hand began to pull him along, urging him to go to the village with them. The adventurers from the Rito felt that they might be welcome. Zashue even made an eccentric, clownish jump, exclaiming,—

"Koshare raua! Raua Koshare!"

Boisterous laughter broke out. One of the Tanos threw his arm around Zashue's neck, shouting at the top of his voice,—

"Hiuonde tema kosare!" He pressed him to his breast, whispering,—

"Oga P' Hoge Pare!"

No mistake was possible; the Tano was a brother, a Koshare like Zashue, and delighted to meet another from the far-distant west. More and more lively the men became on both sides; clumsy attempts at explanation were made; words, signs, gestures passed between them, while walking briskly on; and all were merry and in good spirits.

It was night. Behind the gigantic wall of mountains in the east a whitish glare arose, the light of the rising moon. The group had reached the banks of the Rio de Santa Fe, near where now stands the church of Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe. Before them lay a dusky wilderness, abutting against steep hills. On the highest of those, which overlooks the present town in the north, a terraced mound could be distinguished, and from its sides luminous points twinkled in ruddy light. The thumping of drums, shrill flutes, and an undefined noise rhythmic in its character, in which human voices and numerous rattles were confusedly mingled, issued from a quarter above which a glow arose like that of a fire burning within. That irregular pile was the pueblo of Oga P' Hoge; it stood where Fort Marcy was subsequently erected by the United States troops.

The moon had risen and rested on the higher crests of the mountains. Its light penetrated the basin in which now the town of Santa Fe extends, on both banks of the little stream and south of it. When to-day the moon thus stands over the heights, and looks down the turrets and cupolas of the capitol, hospitals and seminaries glisten in phosphorescent light, and the towers of the cathedral loom up solemnly, casting on the ground before it jet-black shadows. Over elegant dwellings, over modest flat roofs of adobe houses, over military buildings, institutes for the education of those of all races and creeds, the moonlight rests peacefully. Brilliant music sounds in the plaza from the heights; in the northwest a spark rushes down in serpentine windings nearer and nearer,—the approaching railway train! From the south a shrill whistle is heard,—another iron horse sweeping up with people and news from the outside world. Shade-trees rustle in the evening breeze, and their leaves dance, alternately plunged in silvery brightness and transparent night.

To-day the heights of Fort Marcy are deserted, bleak by daylight, pale and yet frowning when shines the moon. Since the seventeenth century life has sprung up at its base. At the time when Hayoue and Zashue lived, life was above, and looked down upon a wilderness beneath. To-day the hills are wild. Formerly juniper-bushes, cedar, and cactus alone peopled the banks of the river, growing along the rills and on the drift-heaps formed by the torrent.

The group of men, with Hayoue and Zashue in their midst, halted on the south bank. This did not suit Zashue; it struck him as rather unfriendly or at least as suspicious. Their companions were evidently waiting for orders, ere they crossed the river.

A man came splashing through the water and called out something, which the Queres of course did not understand. At once all conversation ceased, and the Tanos became silent and grave. The new-comer spoke first; he spoke rapidly and in a low voice, then grasped Hayoue's hand to breathe on it, and held it fast. Zashue's hands as well had been seized by two Tanos. His bow and quiver had been removed from him under some friendly pretext. They were disarmed. Then all moved on, forded the stream, and took a trail that led directly to the foot of the hill where stood the pueblo. All sounds of merriment above were hushed, nothing moved but the men and the night wind rustling through the shrubbery. At the foot of the high hill other Indians came up; these were armed, and they followed the group.

All this looked ominous. They were no longer treated as guests; they were prisoners! Zashue was not so much surprised as Hayoue, for he had always mistrusted. Hayoue inwardly raved. He reproached himself for not having listened to his brother's warnings, for having allowed his rashness, his conceit, his over-confidence, to prevail to such an extent as to fall into a trap which he felt sure the Tanos had artfully laid and cunningly sprung upon them. Still all his indignation and rage were of no avail. Even if he were able to free himself from the grasp of his guards, and to escape the arrow-shots that would be aimed at the fugitive, he saw no chance for him in the relentless chase that would follow. All advantages would be on the side of the Tanos, who knew the country, whereas he was a total stranger. Nothing was left him but to resign himself to his fate and to await the course of events. It was hard for the proud, self-glorious young warrior; it was not only hard but if he took into consideration his overbearing manner toward Zashue, a punishment justly merited. Hayoue hung his head, crestfallen and in bitter wrath.

At last some one came down the steep hill, muttered a few words, and the ascent began. Nobody turned back to glance at the moonlit expanse that was unfolding itself more and more beneath. A dismal yelping sounded from below, the voice of a coyote from the banks of the stream. The wolf had followed the returning hunters. He licked the blood trickling from the dead game and called his comrades. Other voices answered in the neighbourhood; from various parts of the basin the barking died away in a mournful, dismal wail mingled with shrieks, sobs, and fiendish laughter. It rose from the depths, filling the air, re-echoing from the hills, and changing its modulations, a horrible chorus of moans and groans alternating with exclamations of hellish triumph. A shiver passed through both the prisoners; their entrance into Oga P' Hoge took place with dismal prognostications.

The pueblo was built in the shape of a rectangle. The north and east sides of it formed a continuous structure; narrow alleys separated them from the south and the west sides, and between the two there was also an alley of entrance and exit. Through the latter therefore, on the southwest corner, the Tanos entered an open space like a large court-yard, surrounded by the terraced buildings composing the village.

At the approach of the group, human forms had appeared on the flat roofs and peered down upon the prisoners with curious eyes. As soon as the captives entered the square, the number of spectators increased; they came out from the interior, from lower stories, down from the upper tier, men, women, and children. They descended into the square, and the whole population of the village, about four hundred souls, gathered around the strangers and their guard. All the able-bodied men were not among them. A dozen videttes were distributed on the flat roofs, and nearly fifty warriors, hastily armed and equipped, had scattered at some distance from the buildings along the hills throughout the basin, to intercept a possible flight, as well as to guard approaches in case the two prisoners should be merely advance scouts of a larger body of enemies. Of all this Hayoue and Zashue knew nothing, of course; but they noticed that the throng about them was not friendly, that an ominous silence prevailed. Hardly a whisper was heard; a few women only gesticulated wildly.

The Tanos dropped the hands of their captives, but they remained around them still. For a long while they were left to stand; nobody brought them food, nobody offered them water to allay their thirst. The whispering grew louder; it sounded like murmured threats.

At last the hands of the strangers were again seized and they were led across the square to the northeastern corner. The throng opened in front of them as they advanced, closing in behind, and all following like children after a procession. Some ran along the walls, eager to be near and on hand when the strangers came up. Their curiosity was soon gratified, for the square was small. At the foot of one of the notched beams another halt was made. Two of the guards climbed up and exchanged a few words with an Indian sitting on the roof. Then Hayoue was signalled to follow. A Tano came behind him; after him Zashue, and then two armed men. The crowd had meanwhile closed up against the wall, pressing eye and ear against the air-holes, out of which the firelight shone. Nobody attempted to climb the roof, but all remained below, a moving, wrangling crowd of people illuminated by the placid light of the moon.

Another delay occurred on the roof. The wanderers heard loud talking beneath their feet, and concluded that the council sat in a room below, and that they would be led before that august body. There was some consolation in this fact, for it showed at least that they would not be slaughtered at once. But how should they defend themselves? Nobody understood their language, any more than they understood that of the Tanos! The situation seemed desperate. Hayoue, as well as Zashue, felt helpless; but they had to submit to the inevitable. After all, death would put an end to everything; it is beautiful at Shipapu,—there is constant dancing and singing; the girls are always young and the women never too old.

Hayoue's hand was again grasped by one of the guards, and he was motioned to descend into the apartment below. Zashue had to follow. They found themselves in a long room, whose whitewashed walls reflected the light of a small fire burning on a rude hearth. Close to the hearth sat a man whom the prisoners at once supposed to be the puyo, or governor. By his side sat another, a small figure, somewhat wrinkled. He wore nothing but a breech-clout of buckskin, for it was summer. Several aged men were gathered in the neighbourhood of the fire. Although none of them wore either ornaments or badges, it was easy to surmise that they were the principal shamans. Along the wall sat, lounged, or squatted the clan delegates, so that all in all there were present about eighteen persons, including the prisoners. Outside, the faces and eyes of listeners appeared from time to time through the air-holes.

The man whom the two Queres rightly took to be the civil chief, motioned them, adding, "Sit down."

They obeyed, and remained sitting with downcast looks. The councilmen glanced at them furtively from time to time. None of them spoke. At last a whisper was heard, and now a voice said in the Queres dialect,—

"Whither are you going?"

Hayoue started, and stared about in the room, looking for the man who in this foreign country spoke his own language. When he finally discovered that it was the small old man sitting by the side of the governor, he gaped at him with lips parted, and an expression akin to fright. He had acquired a dim knowledge of the fact that it might be possible for one man to know more than one language, but he had never met such a prodigy as yet. After the first surprise was over, he still stared at the speaker with inquisitive glances, eager to see whether it was possible to speak two dialects with one and the same tongue. Zashue was less startled. He knew that there were people who had learned a speech different from the one to which they were born. Therefore he replied to the query,—

"We are searching for our women, our daughters, and our children."

"Why do you look for them here? We have them not," said the old man.

"Because we have hunted for them everywhere else and have not found them."

"Are you alone?" continued his interlocutor.

"I and my brother are alone," Zashue asserted.

"Why did your koitza and makatza leave you?"

"The Moshome drove them off."

"The Moshome?" The inquisitor criticised his words.

Hayoue had recovered from his surprise. He interjected in a loud, blunt voice,—

"While the men went out to strike the Tehuas, the Moshome Dinne came upon us. We were only a few, and the shuatyam laid waste our corn, and killed many women. Many more, however, fled; we do not know whither. These we have gone out to find; we are looking for them this day here among you, but you have taken us captives. You have treated us, not as it is customary between the Zaashtesh, but as the Moshome are wont to do when strangers come to their hogans." He looked down again, angry. Zashue endeavoured to give him a warning sign, but Hayoue saw it not.

The old man smiled. Afterward he translated to the Tanos what had been said. His communication excited considerable attention. At the close of his speech, one of the medicine-men replied in a few words. The interpreter turned again to the Queres, asking,—

"Why did the people of the Tyuonyi come upon our brethren in the north by night, like shutzuna? The men from the Puye had done them no harm."

"No harm?" Hayoue broke out. "Did they not murder the best, the bravest, the wisest man, our father the maseua? Was it not enough? If you do not call that a bad, a base deed, then you and all of you are as bad and as base as the Tehuas."

The old man's features remained placid. He replied in a quiet tone, but his manner was cool and measured,—

"I know that you believe that the Tehuas killed your maseua. I know it well; for Shotaye, who now is called Aua P'ho Quio, and who lives with Cayamo in the homes at the Puye, came to warn the Tehuas that the Queres were coming over against them. But it is not true. It was not our brethren from the north, it was the Moshome Dinne." He uttered the name with marked emphasis. "They killed the maseua of your tribe."

We recognize in the interpreter the same old man who served the Tehuas in their first interviews with Shotaye. The Tehuas had despatched him to the Tanos, in order to inform the latter of their signal triumph, and to put them on their guard against the Queres. It was a lucky hour for Hayoue and Zashue, especially for the former, when the old man reached the Tanos.

The two adventurers were thunderstruck. Speechless, with heads bowed, they sat in utter amazement at what they were being told. Everything was so completely new to them, and yet it explained so much, that they were unable to collect their minds at once. The Tanos saw their confusion. What the interpreter told them of the replies of the prisoners had already created much interest, and now their embarrassed state attracted still greater attention. The interpreter, therefore, was prompted to further question them.

"When the Queres moved against the Tehuas, were you along?"

"No," Zashue replied sullenly.

"Have many of your people returned from the north?"

"Enough to hold their own against all who speak your language," Hayoue retorted.

The old man blinked; he had put an imprudent question. After a short pause, he asked again,—

"Why did you alone go out to seek for your people?"

"Because," Hayoue indignantly retorted, "the others had to remain at home to protect the weak ones, in case the Moshome Tehua came for the leavings of the Moshome Dinne." He accompanied these already insulting words with looks of defiance, glancing around with eyes flashing, and lips scornfully curled. His wrath was raised to the highest pitch; he could not control himself.

Fortunately for him the Tanos did not understand his words, and the interpreter was shrewd enough to see that the young man thought himself justly angry, and withheld his insulting speech from his listeners. He comprehended the position of the strangers, and understood what their feelings must be. He had no doubt in regard to their sincerity and truthfulness. An important point which he realized was the present weakened condition of the Queres tribe. He turned to the meeting and spoke long and earnestly. His speech was followed with the closest attention, and Zashue, who felt more composed than his younger brother, noticed that the words fell on ready ears. A short discussion followed, in which every one participated in turn; at last all seemed unanimous, and the interpreter, avoiding Hayoue, who sat with eyes gleaming like a loaded electric battery ready to send off flying and burning sparks, turned to Zashue with the query,—

"Have you any trace of your people?"

Zashue related everything in a simple and truthful manner,—how they came to the determination to visit the village, with the intention in case there should be none of the fugitives here to turn southward and continue their search among the southern pueblos. Every word he said was afterward translated to the council; the tuyo delivered a short address; and the interpreter spoke to the two young men in a solemn, dignified manner, as follows:—

"It is well! My brethren say that you are welcome. They also say that you should forgive them for having suspected you. The people on the Tyuonyi wronged those at the Puye, and that was not good! But now, since the hand of Those Above has stricken the Queres, we will no longer be Moshome, but brethren, and will forget what has come between us. Are we not all one, we who wear the hair in sidelocks,—one from the beginning; and have we not all come forth at the same place? You are welcome!"

The speaker paused, glancing at the governor. The latter rose, went over to Zashue, took his hand, breathed on it, and lifted it upward. He did the same to Hayoue; then he returned to his seat and gave a sign to the interpreter, who went on,—

"Those whom you long for are not here. But it may be that as you say, brother,"—he directed these words to Zashue—"they went to our people farther south. In a few days I will have to go thither, and will be your guide. Meanwhile eat the food and drink the water offered you by those who speak a tongue different from yours, but whose hearts are like your heart, and who like you pray to Those Above. He who dwells up there is our father and your father; she who has her home on high is our mother and your mother. Therefore the mothers and fathers of the Tanos say to you through me that it is well that you should stay here. Be welcome!"

Involuntarily Zashue uttered a deeply felt "Hoā" of relief. Hayoue nodded, and sighed as if breathing freer again. The great medicine-man arose, scattered sacred meal, and uttered a prayer to which all the others listened in deep silence. Then he went to greet the strangers in the customary manner. One by one the others followed,—the second medicine-man, the other chief officials, finally the delegates of the clans. Every one grasped their hands and went through the same ceremonies. The council was ended, and to every one's satisfaction.

Last came the old interpreter, and greeted them, saying,—

"I am Chang Doa, what you call Mokatsh hanutsh, 'panther clan.' Where do you belong?"

"Tzitz hanutsh," Zashue quickly responded.

The old man turned to one of the delegates.

"Father," he called to him in his language, "our sons belong to your people. Will you take them with you, or shall they go to the summer cacique?"

The other reflected a short while, then he replied,—

"The summer cacique is busy; let the brethren come with me. I will lead them to the homes of P'ho Doa."

News of the happy result of the council had already spread outside. When the prisoners of a few hours ago, now transformed into honoured guests, stepped down into the square, every one looked at them pleasantly. The throng dispersed, but many followed them into the houses of the Water clan, where they were treated to the primitive food of those times. Soon they retired to rest on simple couches, there to forget the hardships and dangers they had suffered during the day.

Outside, the deepest silence reigned. The pueblo on the steep hill and the desert plain below shone in the rays of the moon, peacefully, as though they too would slumber. From the thickets along the little stream arose a faint twitter; louder and louder it sounded, and rose heavenward in full, melodious strains, soaring on high through the stillness of the night; it was the mocking-birds' greeting to the hour of rest.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: "Oga P' Hoge" is the name given to Santa Fe by the Tehuas of Santa Clara. The Tehuas of San Juan call it "Cua P' Hoge," the place or village of the shell beads, or of the shells (Olivilla) from which they make the beads which they so highly prize. In the sixteenth century that pueblo was already deserted.]



CHAPTER XXI.

Autumn in New Mexico, as well as in many other parts of the world, is the most beautiful time of the year. The rains are over, and vegetation is refreshed and has developed. Yellow flowers cover the slopes of the higher ranges; the summits are crowned with glistening snow again; the days are pleasant and the nights calm, clear, and wonderfully cool. Nature in autumn seems to display its greatest charms to allure mankind into placid submission to the approach of rigid winter.

Autumn has come, and the two adventurers of whose reception we have spoken in the last chapter are still guests, kindly treated and waiting for the guide to give the signal of departure for the south. A few days the old man had said,—in a few days he would himself go to the southern pueblos of his tribe. But upon the rabbit-hunts there followed ceremonial dances which lasted for days, and Hayoue and Zashue could not leave until they were over. Then it required several days to rest and to perform certain rites, and Zashue and Hayoue could not leave on that account. Furthermore, Zashue being Koshare, the Koshare of the Tanos held him back for certain performances of their own, and Hayoue could not or would not start alone. Afterward, Hayoue being Cuirana, the Cuirana held something in store for him, and Zashue did not care to start without his brother. And when all that was finished the old man was not ready; and so they are waiting and waiting, and autumn is here in all its beauty, and Hayoue and Zashue, Zashue as well as Hayoue, begin to chafe; but it is of no avail; they must wait.

While they are thus waiting until it pleases their friend to start, we shall precede them to that south which is their objective point, in order to anticipate if possible the cravings of the two adventurous young men. They may overtake us there, perhaps when we least expect it.

* * * * *

About thirty miles south of Santa Fe, the southern rim of the so-called Basin of Galisteo is bounded by a low and shaggy ridge running from east to west, whose crest is formed of trap-dyke sharply though irregularly dentated. In Spanish this ridge and another similar one which traverses the plain several miles north of it, running parallel to the former, is called very appropriately El Creston, for if seen from a distance and edgewise it strikingly resembles the crest of an antique helmet. The plain of Galisteo expands between crestones, and on the edges of it stand several villages of the Tanos. Of the Galisteo Basin a Spanish report from the sixteenth century says: "There they have no stream; neither are there any running brooks nor any springs which the people could use."

The mountain clusters of the Real de Dolores and Sierra de San Francisco, and beyond these the high Sandia chain, divide the Galisteo country from the valley of the Rio Grande in the west. To the south there extends a dreary plain as far as the salt marshes of the Manzano; eastward spread the wooded slopes of the plateau; above the Pecos border upon the basin. To the north the plain rises gradually, traversed only by the northern creston, until it merges into the plain of Santa Fe.

On the southwestern corner of the Galisteo Basin a broad channel discharges its waters into it, passing between the San Francisco range and the mountains of Dolores. The channel is arid. Mountain torrents rush through it only in the season of thunderstorms, and they have burrowed and ploughed through its surface, scarring it with deep furrows and shifting waterfalls. Near the mouth of the pass and at no great distance from the plain, one of these arroyos has cut through an ancient village, exposing on both banks the lower walls and rooms of its buildings, visible on the surface only as irregular lines and quadrangles of rubbish. The village must have been quite large for an Indian settlement, since seven rectangles with wing-like additions can still be traced. This village in ruins is called to-day the Pueblo Largo, and the name is not inappropriate.

At the time of which we speak, the Pueblo Largo was inhabited, and in as high a state of prosperity as Indian pueblos ever attain unto. It contained, as the ruins attest, nearly fifteen hundred people of the Tanos tribe. Its name was Hishi. The name is well known to-day to the remnants of the Tanos, for they have piously preserved the recollections of their former abodes.

Hishi is not on a beautiful site. It lies in a wide ditch rather than in a valley. No view opens from it, and sombre mountains loom up in close proximity both to the north and west. In the rear of the village, the soil rises gradually to a low series of ridges, from the top of which, at some distance from Hishi, the eye ranges far off toward the plains and the basin of the salt lakes. These ridges are convenient posts of observation. Scouts placed there can descry the approach of hostile Apaches. The latter roam up and down the plains, following the immense herds of buffalo, and prey upon the village Indians whenever the latter present any opportunity for a successful surprise.

The buffalo himself not infrequently comes to graze within a short distance of Hishi. South of the present ruins lies the buffalo spring. When the dark masses of this greatest of American quadrupeds are descried from the heights above the village, the Tanos go out with bow and arrow; and woe to the straggling steer or calf that lags behind. Like the wolf, the Indian rarely attacked any but isolated animals. Only when a communal hunt was organized, and a whole village sallied forth to make war upon the mighty king of the prairies,—only then, previous to the introduction of fire-arms, could the redman venture to assault even a small herd or the rear-guard of a numerous column.

September is drawing to a close, and the autumnal sky is as cloudless and as pure over Hishi as it is over most of the other portions of New Mexico. But in the hollow where the village is situated the sun is scorching, as Hishi lies much lower than the "corner in the east" and lower than the Rito. The chaparro flowers, in dense masses of deep yellow, carpet the earth; and the dark pine forests on the mountain-slopes stare, while yellow streaks sweep up among the dusky timber. In the distance we catch a glimpse of the eastern slope of the Sandia range glistening in the bright yellow hue of the flowers that cover miles of its slanting surface.

On the ridges south of Hishi human figures stand. They are scattered, watching and spying attentively. They are videttes,—outposts, placed to scan the plains and the slopes of the mountains, lest some enemy sneak up and pounce upon the defenceless village. For at the time of which we are speaking the Tanos, or Hishi, are not only defenceless, but singularly unsuspecting and heedless of danger. They would be at the mercy of an enemy, were it not for these guards and scouts, who watch and pry, straining every organ of perception that their people at home may be without care while singing, praying, and making merry. Is not the dance now going on at the village danced, prayed, and sung for their benefit also?

Whenever these outposts turn toward their pueblo they see clouds of dust rising from it, hear loud rhythmic shouting, whoops and yells, beating of drums, and the shrill sounds of flutes. A haze seems to cover the tall and long terraced buildings quite distinct from the vertical columns of sand-whirls that drift over the plain of Galisteo, in calm weather rising above the horizon like thin films of smoke.

It is a great day at Hishi. A dance is performed, songs are sung, and prayers and sacrifices are offered that shall be powerful with Those Above. The people make merry over the fruits of the soil that have now matured. They are grateful, and they wish to be precious to the higher powers in years to come. The great harvest dance is performed to-day. A long procession perambulates the long village. The Koshare trot ahead. They are the same black and white goblins with whom we are already acquainted, but their bodies are decorated now with ripe fruit, with small squashes and ears of corn, all strung to cords of fibre or buckskin, and hung over their shoulders like wreaths. Wild sunflowers adorn their heads. They are followed by the Cuirana, whose bodies are daubed over with bluish clay. Then the general public tramp along. The procession is divided into four sections, the faces of all being painted ad libitum. The first detachment is led by an old man whose snow-white hair supports a wreath of yellow blossoms. He is the so-called summer cacique.

The winter cacique leads on the second group. Behind each ear he wears a tall plume from the wings of the eagle, and around his neck are strung rows upon rows of sacred shell beads, turquoises, and gaudy pebbles. The third is preceded by the great shaman of the hunt. His dress is a tight-fitting suit of buckskin; long fringes depend from his sleeves, and the front and shoulders of his jacket are profusely embroidered with porcupine-quills. A small plumelet of eagle-down dances over his head. The last section is led by the highest shaman. His head is also decorated with yellow flowers, and a green and a yellow plume stand erect behind each ear. The war shaman is not to be seen; the spirits of strife have nothing to do with the feast of peace. The war captain and his assistants accompany the procession to keep order and clear the way.

This long, long pageant winds on, meandering through the pueblo to the sound of drums, of flutes, and of monotonous chants; the white satyrs go ahead, then follow the blue ones, then come in single file the men, vigorously stamping, and behind each a woman, tripping lightly.

Every man is loaded with fruit of some kind, and carries corn and squashes also in each hand. Every woman or girl bears on her head a basket of willows or yucca filled with corn-cakes, yucca preserve, and other delicacies, products of the vegetable kingdom. It is a procession of baskets filing through Hishi, solemn and sober, and in the main extremely monotonous. At intervals the Koshare break ranks to cut a few capers, but to-day the Delight Makers of the Tehuas are remarkably decent, for they are those, par excellence, who say grace. Since their labours have been rewarded, and the crops are now ripe, and the people have sufficient food, they are merry in the prospects of an easy winter, and there is no need of any artificial delight-making.

The procession has passed through the entire village and returned to one of its main squares. The end of the pageant is still on the march when the Koshare break ranks again and cluster in the centre of the square. From every side bystanders come up with fruits, scattering them over the ground where the Delight Makers are waiting; and when the soil is well covered with squash, corn, and other vegetables, the white satyrs begin to dance with the most serious faces, singing and lifting their hands to the skies. Gradually the whole of the offering is crushed, and at last pounded into the earth by the feet of the dancing clowns. The earth has brought forth the necessaries of life to man; now man, in token of gratitude, returns a tribute to the earth.

As soon as this part of the ceremony is over, there arises a great shout from all sides. Ears of corn, gourds, cakes of corn meal, pieces of dried preserve, ripe fruits of the yucca, are thrown up into the air; the baskets are emptied, and bystanders run home to replenish them. Whoever can catch anything proceeds to devour it at once. The whole tribe displays its gratitude by throwing heavenward the food which heaven has enabled it to raise. Man intercepts and enjoys it after the will and the deed have satisfied the invisible powers on high.

The usual mass of spectators are gathered on the roofs and along the walls of the houses. When the noisy distribution of offerings begins, many run to get their share. But it is not those who are most eager that are most considered; it seems that the bulk of the food thrown into the air is showering down upon a row of houses on whose terraces stands a group of men, women, and children who seem no part of the inhabitants of Hishi, manifesting this not so much in dress as from their distant and timid deportment. All of them are very poorly clad, the children mostly naked; and yet here and there a girl among them wears a new hide, and some old woman a new white cotton wrap. Their pieces of clothing appear like new mendings on old rags, or like a substantial shawl thrown over scanty vestments. The older members of this peculiar group look down upon the merry spectacle below with grave and melancholy eyes; the younger would fain be merry also, but sadness lurks in their smiles. The children alone yield fully to the excitement and happiness of the hour. As the gifts fall down from above the older ones do not attempt to seize them; the girls and younger women gather what they can and place them carefully in a heap. What the children do not succeed in devouring at once is taken away from them and placed with the rest. They are improving the opportunity to lay in stores, and the Tanos lend them a willing hand. Spectators below turn over to them what has fallen to their share, others place what they have secured with the little hoard the strangers are accumulating. For these people, so poorly clad and looking so needy, must be strangers in the village of Hishi. Strangers, yes; but strangers in need; and could there be any sacrifice, any offering, more agreeable to those on high than the feeding of people whom they allow to live by thrusting them on the charity of fellow-beings? These strangers are after all but children of the same spiritual parents from the upper world, and as such they are brothers, sisters, and relatives.

That the strangers are village Indians can easily be seen. It is proved by the cut of the hair, and by the rags which still protect their bodies from absolute nakedness. But the tongue they speak is different from that spoken by the people of Hishi. To us, however, it is not new. We have heard that dialect before. It is the Queres language, the language of the Rito. The strangers are the lost ones whom Hayoue and Zashue have sought so anxiously and with so much suffering, and for the sake of whom they have exposed their lives a hundred times perhaps, in vain. Zashue was right, the fugitives had turned south from the Bocas; and had Hayoue been less self-sufficient they would have found them ere now.

Still we miss among that little band of Queres fugitives those with whom we have become more closely acquainted.



In vain we look for Say Koitza, for Mitsha, for Okoya. Can it be true, as Hayoue surmised, that his bosom friend, Zashue's eldest son, is dead?

The throwing about of fruit has ceased; the dance is resumed, and new figures may appear. Everybody hushes, and fastens his gaze on the performance.

The dancers have formed a wide ring. Men and women hold each other by the hands, and dance in a circle around the place which has been covered with objects of sacrifice. One after the other, the Koshare, the Cuirana, after them each one of the four sections, step within the circle, stamping down the fruits spread out there. Two or three of the Delight Makers improve the occasion to cut some of their usual capers, and the spectators laugh to their heart's content. Laughter is contagious, it captures even the melancholy group of Queres; the old among them smile, the young chuckle, the children shout and yell from sheer delight. One boy in particular is very conspicuous from the intense interest he takes in everything the Koshare are doing. He is about ten years of age. A dirty breech-clout constitutes his only vestment, but a necklace of multi-coloured pebbles adorns his neck; and as often as a Koshare grimaces, or makes an extraordinary gesture, or displays his tongue to the public, this boy jumps up, screams and shouts, and screeches in delirious joy. His whole heart is with the Koshare; he imitates their movements, improves on their gestures to such a degree that those around him smile, exchanging winks of approval as if saying, "He will be a good one."

The head of a girl slowly rises through a hatchway; and as her face turns toward us, we recognize the soft, beaming eyes of Mitsha Koitza. The maiden looks thinner, her features sharper. She remains standing on the notched beam serving as a ladder, and calls out,—

"Shyuote!"

No reply is made to the call. The din and noise of the dance drown her voice, and all are so occupied by the sights that none pay any attention to her. The youngster who has been devoting all his time to the pranks of the Delight Makers jumps forward in his enthusiasm, and would have tumbled sheer over the low parapet encircling the roof had not one of the men standing near grasped his hair and pulled him back. It saved the boy's life, but the urchin is highly displeased at the informal manner in which he is restrained. He screams and struggles to free himself. Again the voice of the maiden is heard; this time it is louder and the tone commanding.

"Shyuote!"

"She is calling you, uak," the man says who has saved the brat.

"I won't go," retorts our old friend Shyuote, for he it is who attempts to play at Koshare here.

"Shyuote, come to sanaya!" again calls the maiden.

The mention of his mother creates a stir among the bystanders. They forget the dance and turn toward Mitsha. Shyuote still refuses to obey, but the others push him forcibly to the hatchway. Several of the women approach Mitsha, and one inquires of her in a subdued voice,—

"How goes it below?"

The girl's eyes fill with tears. At last she whispers,—

"It goes—to Shipapu." She turns around and disappears beneath, sobbing. Shyuote is sent after her.

The people stand and shake their heads. The news wanders from lip to lip, "She is dying." All the pleasure, every interest in the performance, has vanished. Indifferent to the celebration, the Queres hang their heads in sadness; yet no complaint is heard, not a tear glistens in those mournful eyes. She is only dying, not dead.

But who is dying? The query cannot be answered up here. Let us go down and follow Mitsha.

In the dingy room of an Indian home, where light and air penetrate through a single diminutive air-hole, sit and crouch half a dozen people. They surround at some distance a human being whose head rests on a bundle of skins, the body on a buffalo-robe. The knees are drawn up, and cotton mantles cover the lower extremities. The chest, scantily covered with a ragged, dark-coloured wrap, heaves at long intervals; the extremities begin to stretch; the face is devoid of expression; the eyes are wide open, staring, glassy; the lips parted; and on each side of the mouth-corners ominous wrinkles begin to form. The sufferer is a woman, and as we look closer we recognize her as Say Koitza, the wife of Zashue. He must hasten his steps if he wishes to find her upon earth, for she is dying!

It is very still in the room. The prayers which the medicine-man of the Tanos has been reciting are hushed, the little idols of lava with red-painted faces and eyes made of turquoises by means of which he hoped to conjure the sickness, lean against the wall useless. Those whose duty it is cower about the dying woman, and look on speechless. How faint the breathings grow, how the chest rises and falls at longer intervals, weaker every time! They listen as the rattling in her throat becomes harder and slower. They dare not weep, for all is not over.

Say Koitza is dying! Not the sudden death she once prayed for when Topanashka her father went over to Shipapu; but still she dies a painless death,—she dies from exhaustion.

What is going on in her mind while the fetters which tied her soul to the body are being dissolved? That body is henceforth powerless; it has no wants, no cravings. The soul becomes free. Can it already glance beyond? Not yet, for as long as earthly matter clings to him man cannot perceive the other world. Flashes of light gleam through the mist in which he is plunged, through both physical weakness and the efforts of the soul to become free. The body struggles for preservation, the spirit for freedom from its henceforth useless shell.

Are mind and body merely one? Does not death put an end to everything that we ever were and can be? Does there remain after death anything beyond the memory of our former existence, preserved in the hearts of our fellow-beings? Nobody has ever returned from beyond the grave to tell us how he felt, what he thought, while dying. But a dying person always casts rays of light over his surroundings, and the surroundings of dying Say Koitza are not without their lesson for us.

What do we see? A man sits near the dying woman. He lifts up his hands and stares; it is the medicine-man, and he has done his utmost; he is powerless, his art useless. What he did was done in the conviction that spiritual influences, however grossly conceived and coarsely applied, could compel the soul to master the body's ailment, could prop up the sinking machinery and strengthen the motive power without regard to its decaying tools. To-day, provided the body is helped along with physical means, the soul would remain against its will, or against the will of what stands in closer relation to it originally than the form which it has animated here beneath. If mind and body were one, either method could be successful. Neither is, when death steps in to proclaim their separation.

By the side of the shaman a young man leans against the wall. He is well-built and lithe. His head is bent so low in grief that the dark hair streams over his face, concealing his features. The youth is mourning, mourning deeply. Over what? Over the body or its sufferings? No, he mourns because of an impending separation. From what? From the form of her whom he will miss? No, for that form will not leave this earth in substance. He mourns for something that goes beyond his grasp, and remains beyond it so long as he himself moves upon this earth.

Mitsha also is here. She has properly no right to be for she does not belong to the same clan as Say; but she has remained, and nobody has objected to her presence. She has not craved permission, it has come by tacit consent. Mitsha has felt that Say was approaching the point when the soul breaks loose and flits to another realm, and she wishes to remain with her to the last. If that soul should drop like a shrivelled fruit, to decay and perish forever, nobody would bend to gaze fondly at it. But if it flutter upward, we follow it with our eyes as long as we can, unconsciously thinking, "How happy you are, free now; and how much I wish to be with you." The very grief caused by the separation, the longing, the clinging to him or to her whom we know to be leaving us, are signs that there is something beyond, something which we are loath to lose but sure to find again elsewhere, Mitsha has known Okoya's mother but little, but the fearful distress of the past two months has brought them together at last. Now the girl weeps, but not loudly, at the thought of separation. If death be annihilation, tears are of no avail. But if death be a promise of life in another condition, then, child, well may you shed tears, for your grief is a token of hope.