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 protected by her foreign god.”

Heedless of the crowds, as if they were not, Zura took her hat, shoes, and stockings from the adoring small boy who held them and rejoined me.  I glanced around at the family.  The women’s faces said nothing.  To at least two of them, Zura was a strange being not of their kind and with whom they had nothing to do.  But the look in Kishimoto San’s eyes made me shrink for the fate of the girl.

Laying my hand upon her arm I asked, “Oh, Zura, why did you do it?  Aren’t your feet burned?”

“Burned!  Nonsense!  They are not even overheated.  I used some of their spirit powder, which is plain salt.  I did it to prove to myself that all they teach and do is fakery.”

Page joined us, inquiring anxiously, “You are not hurt?  I call it plucky, but very foolish.  Didn’t you hear me call to you?”

Zura, looking up from fastening her shoe, replied stiffly, “Mr. Hanaford, once is quite enough for you to interfere with my affairs.”

The boy flushed, then smiled, and dropped to the rear.

As she spoke I could but notice her voice was a little less joyous.  It sounded a note of weariness as if her high spirit, though unconquered, was a bit tired of the game.