"Not till we have dealt with Amochol," I repeated, staring at the narrow opening which crossed this black and desolate region like a streak of sunshine across burnt land.
Tahoontowhee examined the trail; nothing had passed since the last rain, save deer and fox.
So I went over to where Lois was bathing her flushed face in the tiny stream, and lay down to drink beside her.
"The water is cold and sweet," she said, "not like that bitter water in the swamp." She held her cupped hands for me to drink from. And I kissed the fragrant cup.
As we rose and I shouldered my rifle, the Grey-Feather began to sing in a low, musical, chanting voice; and all the Indians turned merry faces toward Lois and me as they nodded time to the refrain:
"Continue to listen and hear the truth,
Maiden Hidden and Hidden Youth.
The song of those who are 'more than men'!
*Thi-ya-en-sa-y-e-ken!"
[* "They will (live to) see it again!">[
"It is the chant of the Stone Throwers—the Little People!" said Mayaro, laughing. "Ye two are fit to hear it."
"They are singing the Song of the Hidden Children," I whispered to Lois. "Is it not strangely pretty?"
"It is wild music, but sweet," she murmured, "—the music of the Little People—che-kah-a-hen-wah."