"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!