and could there be any sacrifice, any
offering, more agreeable to those on high than the feeding of people
whom they allow to live by thrusting them on the charity of
fellow-beings? These strangers are after all but children of the same
spiritual parents from the upper world, and as such they are brothers,
sisters, and relatives.

That the strangers are village Indians can easily be seen. It is proved
by the cut of the hair, and by the rags which still protect their bodies
from absolute nakedness. But the tongue they speak is different from
that spoken by the people of Hishi. To us, however, it is not new. We
have heard that dialect before. It is the Queres language, the language
of the Rito. The strangers are the lost ones whom Hayoue and Zashue have
sought so anxiously and with so much suffering, and for the sake of whom
they have exposed their lives a hundred times perhaps, in vain. Zashue
was right, the fugitives had turned south from the Bocas; and had Hayoue
been less self-sufficient they would have found them ere now.

Still we miss among that little band of Queres fugitives those with whom
we have become more closely acquainted.

[Illustration: Ruins of an Ancient Pueblo]

In vain we look for Say Koitza, for Mitsha, for Okoya. Can it be true,
as Hayoue surmised, that his bosom friend, Zashue's eldest son, is dead?

The throwing about of fruit has ceased; the dance is resumed, and new
figures may appear. Everybody hushes, and fastens his gaze on the
performance.

The dancers have formed a wide ring. Men and women hold each other by
the hands, and dance in a circle around the place which has been covered
with objects of sacrifice. One after the other, the Koshare, the
Cuirana, after them each one of the four sections, step within the
circle, stamping down the fruits spread out there. Two or three of the
Delight Makers improve the occasion to cut some of their usual capers,
and the spectators laugh to their heart's content. Laughter is
contagious, it captures even the melancholy group of Queres; the old
among them smile, the young chuckle, the children shout and yell from
sheer delight. One boy in particular is very conspicuous from the
intense interest he takes in everything the Koshare are doing. He is
about ten years of age. A dirty breech-clout constitutes his only
vestment, but a necklace of multi-coloured pebbles adorns his neck; and
as often as a Koshare grimaces, or makes an extraordinary gesture, or