“As the years passed, many cruel practices grew up in connection with the worship of these gods. Some of them are so terrible that the old seaman would not tell me of them. One, however, he did tell; that was that all the illuminations of the gods were held in a tent made of many thicknesses of skins. Only men were permitted to be present during the illumination. The life of a woman or child who chanced to look into the tent at such a time must be sacrificed. Their blood must be spilled before the face of the blue god. Very strange sort of”—she broke off abruptly, to exclaim:
“Why, Lucile, what makes you tremble so?”
“Nothing, I guess.” Lucile tried to smile but made a poor attempt at it. “It—it’s ridiculous, I know,” she stammered, “but you know I saw a blue face illumined and I am a girl, so—”
“Nonsense! Pure nonsense!” exclaimed Marian. “You are in America, Chicago. This story comes from Siberia. Probably not one of those tribesmen has ever set foot on the American continent, let alone in Chicago. And if they did, do you suppose for a moment that our authorities would allow them to continue to perform these terrible religious rites?”
Florence was silent.
Suddenly Lucile whispered:
“Listen! What was that?”
For a moment the room was silent. Only the faint tick-tick of the clock in the wall disturbed the stillness. Then, faintly from outside there sounded a sort of metallic jingle.
“Someone out there, below,” whispered Marian. “He has kicked that tin can I threw out there; the third can of corn, remember?”
The answer was a faint “Ah.” Then again all was silence.