"Look, Sorceress! I dreamed of a felled sapling and a wolverine! What means my dream?"
And the slim, white figure, head bowed in her dark hair, answered quietly:
"O dancer of the Na-usin, who wears okwencha at the Onon-hou-aroria, yet is no Seneca, the felled sapling is thou thyself. Heed lest the wolverine shall scent a human touch upon thy breast!" And she pointed at the Andastes.
A dead silence followed, then the girl, horror struck, shrank back, her hands covering her face.
Another sprang forward and cried:
"Sorceress! I dreamed of falling water and a red cloud at sunset hanging like a plume!"
"Water falls, daughter of Mountain Snakes. Every drop you saw was a dead man falling. And the red cloud was red by reason of blood; and the plume was the crest of a war chief."
"What chief!" said Amochol, turning his deadly eyes on her.
"A Gate-Keeper of the West."
The shuddering silence was broken by the eager voice of another girl, bounding from her place—a flash of azure and jewelled paint.