“Hotshanyi, shaykatze, uishtyaka, and you, the mothers of the tribe, hear me!  Hear me also, you who are our fathers,”—­his voice grew stronger; he was recovering assurance.  “I have called you together to listen to what I say.”  He crowed the last words rather than spoke them.

“My brother, the nashtio of Shyuamo hanutsh,” continued he, “has spoken to me and said,”—­he stopped and shot a glance of inquiry over toward Tyope, but Tyope failed to note it,—­“satyumishe has said, ’Tapop, my hanutsh is numerous and has many children, but only very little maize; the mot[=a]tza and the makatza are many, but of beans there are few, and the field we are tilling is small.’” Hoshkanyi Tihua was manifestly pleased with his own eloquence, for he again looked around the room for marks of admiration.  Only the icy look of Topanashka met his gaze, and he proceeded more modestly,—­

“My brother from Shyuamo then said to me, ’See here, nashtio Tapop, there are the people from Tzitz; they are the least in numbers on the Tyuonyi, and yet they have as much ground as we; and they raised as much maize and even more beans, for they are higher up than we, and get more water than we.  Now, therefore, call them together, all the yaya and the fathers, and say to them, “Shyuamo hanutsh demands from Tzitz hanutsh that it should share its field with us, for where there are two mouths of Shyuamo there is only one of Tzitz; but when Tzitz raises one ear of corn, Shyuamo grows not more than one."’”

He had spoken, and drew a heavy sigh of relief.  The most profound silence reigned.  Tyope remained with his head bowed and his face covered with both hands.  Topanashka sat rigidly immovable, his cold piercing gaze fastened on the tapop.  The representative of the Water clan made a very wry face and looked at the fire.

The tapop had yet to perform one duty ere discussion could begin.  He turned to the Hotshanyi and addressed him,—­

“Sa umo, you and your brethren the shaykatze and the uishtyaka, I address; what do you say to what Shyuamo is asking?  Speak, yaya; we are your children; we listen.  You are old and wise, we are young and weak.”

The old cacique raised his dim eyes to the speaker and replied in a hoarse voice,—­

“I thank you, sa uishe,—­I thank you for myself and for my brethren here that you have put this question to us.  But”—­the voice grew more steady and strong—­“you know that it is our duty to pray, to fast, and to watch, that peace may rule among the Zaashtesh and that nothing may disturb it.  We cannot listen to anything that calls forth two kinds of words, and that may bring strife,”—­he emphasized strongly the latter word; “we cannot therefore remain.  May the Shiuana enlighten your hearts.  We shall pray that they will counsel you to do good only.”

The old Hotshanyi rose and went toward the doorway.  His form was bent, his step faltering.  His two associates followed.  Not one of those present dared to look at them.  None of them noticed the deeply, mournfully significant glance which the cacique, while he crept through the door, exchanged with Topanashka.