"Hush!" the Naua sternly interrupted; "think of those here." He pointed toward the symbols. "Don't you know that they must not hear the name of that woman?"
Tyope replied hastily, and eager to drown the reprimand his chief had given him,—
"What shall we do, Naua?"
The old man became impatient. "Don't you see that I am at work? I am busy. Those here," he again nodded at the idols, "leave me no peace. I must be with them until the last otshanyi begins. In three days we go to the kaaptsh,—you, he, all our brethren,—and then we may speak. Now leave me alone. Go! Leave me! Go! Go!" he cried, and waved his hand upward. He was not to be spoken to any longer; he began to beat his drum and took up the low chant again. Zashue hurriedly climbed out of the estufa, and Tyope followed with an angry face. When the latter was on the open ground again, Zashue stepped up to him and said in a very decided tone,—
"You see now, satyumishe, that Say is innocent. Hereafter, Tyope, leave her alone." Turning about, he walked toward the large house. Tyope cast after him a look less of anger than of bitter disappointment.
The last act of the great ceremony began. A tremendous shout sounded from the outer entrance to the gallery leading into the court-yard of the great house. The chant arose stronger and louder than ever before, and several drums rumbled at once. Again were the terraces filled with people, the walls below lined with spectators. Topanashka sat on the roof, cold and impassable. Say Koitza leaned in the doorway of her home, with a quiet, almost smiling, countenance.
A long array of couples, dressed as before but painted red, opened the procession; then came the Cuirana, and last the Koshare. Topanashka arose and joined the dancers; the Tapop stood beside him, and both stamped along, keeping time as if they were young once more. The singers were reinforced by several aged men with snow-white hair, three of whom wore dark wraps, sleeveless and covered with red embroidery. These were the chief penitents; those without badges or distinctive dress, the principal shamans of the tribe. A thrill of excitement ran through the spectators; children on the roofs gathered in groups, moving in harmony with the strong rhythmic noise below. The jesters had become very quiet; they went about gravely keeping order, for the court was now filled with performers. The green headdresses waved like reeds before the wind, and the whole space looked like a rhythmically wafted cornfield. When the dancers were executing the beautiful figure of the planting of maize,—man and woman bending outward simultaneously, each one to his side, and all the rattles sounding as if upon command,—everything around was hushed; everybody looked on in respectful silence, so correct were the motions, so well-timed and so impressive the sight. Say also felt genuine delight. She thought of times long past when she, too, had joined in the dance. Now, alas, she could not. With all the relief this day had brought her, there still remained a dull weight in her bosom, and an inner voice forbade her to mingle with those so sincerely engaged in rites of thanksgiving to the powers of good and happiness.
While she stood and gazed around, her attention was directed to a young couple passing in front of her. The handsome lad with the dark, streaming hair was Okoya, and she recognized him proudly as the best-looking youth on the ground, Hayoue perhaps excepted. But then, was not Hayoue, Okoya's father's brother? But who was the girl by Okoya's side? That slender figure of medium height, that earnest, thoughtful expression of the face, those lustrous eyes,—whose were they? The two were manifestly a handsome pair, and the longer she watched them the more she became satisfied that they were the prettiest couple in the dance. They were certainly well matched; her son's partner was the handsomest girl of the tribe; of this she was convinced, and she felt proud of it. Motherly pride caused her heart to flutter, and the instinct of woman made her eager to know who the maiden was who appeared such a fitting partner for her own good-looking son. Say Koitza determined to improve the first opportunity that might present itself for ascertaining who the girl was and where she belonged.
The day was drawing to a close, a day of joyful excitement for the people of the Tyuonyi. The dance terminated. As the sun went down the dancers crowded out of the passage-way; so did the visitors; it grew quieter and quieter on and about the large house. The swarm of people leaving it scattered toward the cliffs in little bands and thin streams, separating and diverging from each other like the branches of an open fan. And yet, after night had come and the moon had risen in a cloudless sky, there was still bustle everywhere. Households ravaged by the visitations of the Koshare were being restored to order, the exhausted dancers were being feasted, and the estufas were being cleared of everything bearing a sacred character. Young men and boys still loitered in groups, repeating with hoarse voices the songs and chants they had lately addressed to the ruler of day.
On the terrace roof of the home of Tyope's wife a young girl stood quite alone, gazing at that moon where the mother of all mankind, the Sanatyaya, is supposed to reside. It was Mitsha Koitza, who had just returned from the estufa of her clan with the mother-soul of her own home, and who still lingered here holding in her hands the cluster of snowy, delicate feathers. She thinks, while her nimble fingers play with it, of the young man who has been her partner the whole day, who has danced beside her so quiet, modest, and yet so handsome, and who once appeared to her on this same roof brave and resolute in her defence. While she thus stands, gazes, and dreams, a flake of down becomes detached and quivers upward into the calm, still air. Involuntarily the maiden fastens her glance on the plumelet, which flits upward and upward in the direction of the moon's silvery orb. Such a flitting and floating plume is the symbol of prayer. Mitsha's whole heart goes anxiously with the feather. It rises and rises, and at last disappears as if absorbed by moonlight. The features of the maiden, which till now have carried an anxious, pleading look, brighten with a soft and happy smile. The mother above has listened to her entreaty, for the symbol of her thoughts, the feather, has gone to rest on the bosom of her who watches over every house, who feels with every loving and praying heart.