“Why,—the Indian priests or conjurers,” Mervyn explained. “They have been there all day.”
“They are called the cheerataghe,—men possessed of divine fire,” Raymond volunteered.
The captain-lieutenant somewhat resented the amendment of his explanation. “They are the only people in the world who believe that Raymond has any religion of any sort.” He laughed with relish and banteringly.
“Don’t you think that is funny, Mr. Mervyn?” she demanded, her tone a trifle enigmatical. She did not look at him as she still leaned with one hand on the cannon, her hat full of violets depending from her arm.
“Vastly amusing, sure,” declared Mervyn,—and Ensign Innis laughed, too, in the full persuasion of pleasing.
“I can’t see their feathers or bonnets,” she said.
“No,” explained Raymond, “they have their heads covered with the cloth they weave, and they heap ashes on the cloth.”
“Oh-h-h!” cried out Arabella.
“Watch them,—watch them now,” Raymond said quickly. “They are heaping the ashes on their heads again.”
There was a strange, undulatory motion among the row of heavily draped figures, each bending to the right, their hands seeming to wildly wave as they caught up the invisible ashes before them and strewed them over their heads, while a low wail broke forth. “And you think this is funny?” demanded Arabella of the young men, looking at them severally.