Well, being safe again, he was a devoted lover again, and he must get on with his courtship.  Considering that Clara and Thurstane, if left much together here in the pueblo, might lead each other into the temptation of a betrothal, he decided that he must be at hand to prevent such a catastrophe, and so here he was.  Presently he began to talk to the girl in Spanish; then he begged the aunt’s pardon for speaking what was to her an unknown tongue; but he had, he said, some family matters for his cousin’s ear; would Mrs. Stanley be so good as to excuse him?

“Certainly,” returned that far-sighted woman, guessing what the family matters might be, and approving them.  “By the way, I have something to do,” she added.  “I must attend to it immediately.”

By this time she remembered all about her nightmare, and she was in a state of inflammation as to the Moqui religion.  If the dream were true, if the Moquis were in the habit of sacrificing strong-minded women or any kind of women, she must know it and put a stop to it.  Stepping into the central room, where Thurstane and Glover were smoking with a number of Indians, she said in her prompt, positive way, “I must look into these people’s religion.  Does anybody know whether they have any?”

The Lieutenant had a spark or two of information on the subject.  Through the medium of a Navajo who had strolled into the pueblo, and who spoke a little Spanish and a good deal of Moqui, he had been catechising the chief as to manners, customs, etc.

“I understand,” he said, “that they have a sacred fire which they never suffer to go out.  They are believed to worship the sun, like the ancient Aztecs.  The sacred fire seems to confirm the suspicion.”

“Sacred fire! vestal virgins, too, I suppose! can they be Romans?” reasoned Aunt Maria, beginning to doubt Prince Madoc.

“The vestal virgins here are old men,” replied Ralph, wickedly pleased to get a joke on the lady.

“Oh!  The Moquis are not Romans,” decided Mrs Stanley.  “Well, what do these old men do?”

“Keep the fire burning.”

“What if it should go out?  What would happen?”

“I don’t know,” responded the sub-acid Thurstane.

“I didn’t suppose you did,” said Aunt Maria pettishly.  “Captain Glover, I want you to come with me.”

Followed by the subservient skipper, she marched to the other end of the pueblo.  There was the mysterious apartment; it was not really a temple, but a sort of public hall and general lounging place; such rooms exist in the Spanish-speaking pueblos of Zuni and Laguna, and are there called estufas.  The explorers soon discovered that the only entrance into the estufa was by a trapdoor and a ladder.  Now Aunt Maria hated ladders:  they were awkward for skirts, and moreover they made her giddy; so she simply got on her knees and peeped through the trap-door.  But there was a fire directly below, and there was also a pretty strong smell of pipes of tobacco, so that she saw nothing and was stifled and disgusted.  She sent Glover down, as people lower a dog into a mine where gases are suspected.  After a brief absence the skipper returned and reported.