“I have nothing to ask.”

The two left the room.  The place where Those Above were thought to be accessible to the intercession of man was the cave adjoining, but there was no communication between the two chambers.

Presently the cacique crept back to where they had left Topanashka alone, and Hoshkanyi followed.  The former resumed his seat by the hearth, whereas the tapop cowered in front of him.  He looked anxiously in the old man’s face, and at the same time shot an occasional quick glance over toward the maseua.  In a hollow voice the Hotshanyi said,—­

“You may speak now, sa uishe; the kopishtai know that you are here.”

“Sa umo Hotshanyi,” the tapop commenced, “I have listened to a speech.  Things have been said to me that concern the tribe.”  He stopped short and fastened his eyes on the floor.

“This is well,” the cacique said encouragingly; “you must hear what the children of P[=a]yatyama and Sanatyaya are doing; you are their father.”

Hoshkanyi sighed, and appeared to be much embarrassed.

“Speak, mot[=a]tza,” urged the old man.

“I don’t know what to do,” the little man stuttered.

“Have you been asked to do anything?”

“Yes, they have—­” He stopped, sighed again, and then proceeded hastily and with an expression of anguish in his face, “Shyuamo hanutsh asks that Tzitz hanutsh—­”

The Hotshanyi commanded him to desist.

“Stay, stay, Hoshkanyi Tihua!” he hoarsely exclaimed.  “You know that we, the mothers of the tribe, will not listen to anything that divides our children among themselves or that might cause division among them.  You ask for advice from me.  This advice you shall receive, but only on things that I can know of and which I dare to hear.  If you speak to me of strife and dispute, I shall not listen to it.  Speak of yourself, not of others.”

Topanashka was an attentive listener, but not a muscle in his face moved; whereas the little tapop was manifestly in great trouble.  He coughed, hemmed and hawed, twisted his body, moved uneasily in his seat, and at last continued in a faltering manner,—­

“I do not know whether or not I ought to call the council together.”

“Were you asked to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must do it; it is your duty,” replied the Hotshanyi.  He spoke imperatively, and with remarkable dignity of manner.  Thus the first point was settled.  And the tapop with growing uneasiness proceeded to his next.

“It has been said to me that I should send my brother here,” pointing at Topanashka, “to call together the fathers.  Now is it well to do so, or shall I send the assistant civil chieftain to the men?” Hoshkanyi spoke like a schoolboy who was delivering a disagreeable message.

The matter in itself seemed of no consequence at all, but the manner in which the governor spoke and acted looked extremely suspicious.  Both of his listeners became attentive; the cacique displayed no signs of surprise, but he looked at the speaker fixedly, and inquired of him, speaking very slowly,—­