"I am not working, sa uishe," said the cacique. "Speak; I listen. What is it you wish?"
"Can I see the kopishtai?" Hoshkanyi whispered anxiously.
The eyes of the Hotshanyi brightened. His look suddenly became clear and firm. With surprising alacrity he rose, as if he had become younger at once. His whole figure, although bent, attained vigour and elasticity. Before leaving the cave he looked inquiringly at Topanashka, who only shook his head and said in a low tone,—
"I have nothing to ask."
The two left the room. The place where Those Above were thought to be accessible to the intercession of man was the cave adjoining, but there was no communication between the two chambers.
Presently the cacique crept back to where they had left Topanashka alone, and Hoshkanyi followed. The former resumed his seat by the hearth, whereas the tapop cowered in front of him. He looked anxiously in the old man's face, and at the same time shot an occasional quick glance over toward the maseua. In a hollow voice the Hotshanyi said,—
"You may speak now, sa uishe; the kopishtai know that you are here."
"Sa umo Hotshanyi," the tapop commenced, "I have listened to a speech. Things have been said to me that concern the tribe." He stopped short and fastened his eyes on the floor.
"This is well," the cacique said encouragingly; "you must hear what the children of Pāyatyama and Sanatyaya are doing; you are their father."
Hoshkanyi sighed, and appeared to be much embarrassed.