Her head bent lower over the sacred bowl, but she made no lines. He saw it, and crept closer.
“Am I an arrow to you?” he asked––“sometimes your face goes strange like that, and I feel like an arrow,––I would rather be a bird with only prayer feathers for you!”
She smiled wistfully and shook her head.
“You are a prayer;––one prayer all alone,” she said at last. “I cannot tell you that prayer, I only live for it.”
“Is it a white god prayer?” he asked softly.
She put down the bowl and stared at him as at a witch or a sorcerer;––one who made her afraid.
“I found at the shrine by the trail the head you made of the white god,” he whispered. “No one knows who made it but me. I saw you. I am telling not any one. I am thinking all days of that god.”
“That?”–––
“Is it the great god Po-se-yemo, who went south?” he whispered. “Do you make the prayer likeness that he may come back?”
“Yes, that he may come back!”