displays his tongue to the public, this boy jumps up, screams and
shouts, and screeches in delirious joy. His whole heart is with the
Koshare; he imitates their movements, improves on their gestures to such
a degree that those around him smile, exchanging winks of approval as if
saying, "He will be a good one."

The head of a girl slowly rises through a hatchway; and as her face
turns toward us, we recognize the soft, beaming eyes of Mitsha Koitza.
The maiden looks thinner, her features sharper. She remains standing on
the notched beam serving as a ladder, and calls out,--

"Shyuote!"

No reply is made to the call. The din and noise of the dance drown her
voice, and all are so occupied by the sights that none pay any attention
to her. The youngster who has been devoting all his time to the pranks
of the Delight Makers jumps forward in his enthusiasm, and would have
tumbled sheer over the low parapet encircling the roof had not one of
the men standing near grasped his hair and pulled him back. It saved the
boy's life, but the urchin is highly displeased at the informal manner
in which he is restrained. He screams and struggles to free himself.
Again the voice of the maiden is heard; this time it is louder and the
tone commanding.

"Shyuote!"

"She is calling you, uak," the man says who has saved the brat.

"I won't go," retorts our old friend Shyuote, for he it is who attempts
to play at Koshare here.

"Shyuote, come to sanaya!" again calls the maiden.

The mention of his mother creates a stir among the bystanders. They
forget the dance and turn toward Mitsha. Shyuote still refuses to obey,
but the others push him forcibly to the hatchway. Several of the women
approach Mitsha, and one inquires of her in a subdued voice,--

"How goes it below?"

The girl's eyes fill with tears. At last she whispers,--

"It goes--to Shipapu." She turns around and disappears beneath, sobbing.
Shyuote is sent after her.

The people stand and shake their heads. The news wanders from lip to
lip, "She is dying." All the pleasure, every interest in the
performance, has vanished. Indifferent to the celebration, the Queres
hang their heads in sadness; yet no complaint is heard, not a tear
glistens in those mournful eyes. She is only dying, not dead.

But who is dying? The query cannot be answered up here. Let us go down
and follow Mitsha.

In the dingy room of an Indian home, where light and air penetrate
through a single diminu