could only gaze and wish. The old man,
for the sake of the hungry birdlings at home, could give no further of
his store.

Zura stopped before the little heaps of sweet dough. The children closed
about her. None were afraid, and all instinctively felt her friendship.
Her bargain was quickly made. Soon each child had a large share not only
of cake, but also of tiny flags and paper cherry blossoms which had
adorned the owner's booth. Zura emptied a small knitted purse of "rins"
and "sens." She had told me earlier that she had sold a picture to a
postcard man. The cake dealer got it all.

We left the children open-mouthed, gazing at the "Ojosan" (honorable
elder sister) who had proved nothing less than a goddess; but the girl
heeded neither their looks nor their thanks, for we had come upon the
ancient rite of firewalking, once a holy ceremony for the driving out of
demons, now used for the purpose of proving the protection of the gods
for the devout.

On a mat of straw, overspread by a thick layer of sand, was a bed of
charcoal kept glowing by attendants armed with fans attached to long
poles. Priests were intoning a prayer to the god of water, who lived in
the moon, to descend with vengeance upon the god of fire. With much
twisting of fingers and cabalistic waving of hands, a worshiper would
draw something from a bag purchased from the priest. This he told the
onlookers was spirit powder. Sprinkling a part of it on the fire and
rubbing his feet with what was left he would cross the live coals,
arriving at the other end unharmed. His swaggering air, indicating "I am
divinely protected," deeply impressed the wondering crowd.

Absorbed in watching the fantastic scene, I failed for some time to
notice Zura's absence from my side. Neither was she with her family, who
were near by. Anxiously turning to search for her, I saw her opposite in
a cleared space and, through the background of an eager, curious crowd,
Page Hanaford hurriedly pushing his way to the front.

At the edge of the fire stood Zura without shoes or stockings.

Page saw. His voice rang out, "Miss Wingate! I beg of you!"

For a moment she poised as light as a bird; then, lifting her dress, she
quickly walked across the burning coals. The sparks flew upward,
lighting the bronze and gold in her hair, showing too her face, a study
in scornful daring.

The lookers-on cheered, some crying, "Skilful, skilful!" and others,
"Brave as an empress!" "She is protec