“Shan’t we have the procession!” he cried.
“Ah, the procession!” cried Madame.
The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entry into any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian braves, and headed by Kishwégin they rode on horseback through the main streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served a very well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, did a bit of show riding.
Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses in readiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and bad weather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young men holding council with her.
“How very unfortunate!” cried Mr. May. “How very unfortunate!”
“Dreadful! Dreadful!” wailed Madame from the bed.
“But can’t we do anything?”
“Yes—you can do the White Prisoner scene—the young men can do that, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up after all.”
Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame’s face.
“Won’t you all go downstairs now?” said Alvina. “Mr. Max knows what you must do.”