"Yes," replied Mauricio. "There under that tent is a woman weaving one, and just across sits a man making a mat."
They now saw that they were in the midst of a genuine Indian camp.
"Do those people belong to Cupa?" asked Mr. Page of Mauricio.
"No," he replied; "they are the Volcans—they live up there behind the mountains, but come here in the summer to get the reeds. Always at this season you will find them here. They come and go."
Under hastily erected brushwood dwellings quite a number of persons, mostly women, were seated. They accosted Mauricio and Francisco in their own tongue. "They ask if we will stay a little," said Mauricio, turning to Mr. Page.
Mrs. Page and Aunt Mary both expressing themselves as much interested, the party alighted and walked about the camp. A large portion of the luncheon had been left. This Mauricio distributed among the Indians, after Mr. Page had inquired whether they would accept it. They did not seem so intelligent as the Cupa Indians and looked much poorer. This, Francisco explained, was because they had not had so much intercourse with the white people.
The process of basket-weaving appeared to be slow. The material was soaking in earthern jars, one long strand at a time being woven in and out, apparently without design. However, this is not the case. Wonderfully beautiful shapes these baskets assume under the skilful hands of the weaver.
The rug-maker, a man past ninety, with bent shoulders and white hair, smilingly held up his work for examination. It was of coarser material than that of the baskets and the work went much faster.
"He has all he can do, old Feliciano," said Mauricio. "His son is blind. He cannot work, and his grandson, with whom he lives, has lost the use of his limbs. There are two little girls and a boy, and the mother is dead. With the work of his hands that old man supports four generations. He is teaching it now to his granddaughters, but he tells me that they do not care much to learn it."
"Will he sell us a mat?" asked Mrs. Page.