"Where are you going, uak?"
Shyuote stopped, and looked around for the speaker; but nobody was visible. Again the boughs rustled and shook, and there emerged from the willows an old man of low stature, with iron-gray hair and shrivelled features. He wore no ornaments at all; his wrap was without belt and very dirty. In his left hand he held a plant which he had pulled up by the roots. He stepped up to Shyuote, stood close by his side, and growled at him rather than spoke.
"I asked you where you were going. Why don't you answer?"
Shyuote was frightened, and stammered in reply,—
"To see my father."
"Who is your father?"
"Zashue Tihua."
The features of the interlocutor took on a singular expression. It was not one of pleasure, neither did it betoken anger; if anything, it denoted a sort of grim satisfaction.
"If Zashue is your father," continued he, and his eyes twinkled strangely, "Say Koitza must be your mother."
"Of course," retorted the boy, to whom this interrogatory seemed ludicrous.