He slept profoundly.  The war-paint on his face was sorely blurred; the campaign had not improved his appearance,—­the face with closed eyes resembled a lump of dirt rather than a human head, his kilt was tattered, and his legs covered with scars and scratches.  The circular sandals, much dilapidated, were tied to the belt; and close to them was another object, which Shotaye began to examine attentively, while her eyes flashed at the sight of it.  It was a piece of human skin covered with gore and straight hair partly plaited.  Her heart began to pulsate proudly and in delight, for she saw that Cayamo had secured a scalp, the scalp of a Navajo!  Cayamo was a great warrior!  Shotaye was careful not to touch the trophy, for no woman is allowed to handle the sacred token until after its taking has been duly celebrated in the great dance of the tribe.  But lest the hero might wake up prematurely and notice her presence in too close proximity to the repulsive laurels which he had won, Shotaye quietly withdrew and sat down at some distance from him, where he could easily see her, and quietly awaited his rising from the slumbers of fatigue.

In point of fact it was not proper for her to remain so close to him.  The scalp-crowned warrior must keep aloof from the other sex until he has been purified and has danced.  Shotaye relied upon the extraordinary circumstances, and upon his interpretation of her presence as having run after him, to obtain his forgiveness.  Furthermore they were alone; and a few moments spent in the practice of sign-language could not, she trusted, deprive the scalp of the magic qualities attributed to it.  Had it been a warrior from the Rito she would have left him long ago.

Cayamo was manifestly tired, for he slept hard.  The sun stood close to the zenith, and still he dozed.  The luminary of day did not only illuminate, but its heat was scorching; the shadows under cover of which Cayamo had retreated were moving gradually, and the unkempt head of the hero became exposed to the most direct rays.  The heat began to disturb him; he groaned, stretched himself, moved uneasily, and attempted to turn over.  In this he bent his shield, and the hard leather struck him in the ribs.  Cayamo woke up!  He opened his eyes and yawned, closed them again, then opened the lids a second time, when his look became suddenly a stare of surprise.  Lightning-like he rose to a sitting posture, and grasped the bow as well as his war-club.  In this position he stared at the woman, who smiled, winking and placing a finger on her lips.  As soon as she whispered “Shotaye,” the threatening flash in his eye vanished; he dropped both weapons and threw his features into a repulsive, hideous grin intended for a soft smile.  Then he rose.  It was very plain that he felt overjoyed, and that he would fain have expressed his delight to the woman through some clumsy caress, but he restrained his feelings and became serious.

Extending his arm to the west, he shook his head in a warning manner, pointed to himself, made the sign indicating the act of men coming, and said, “Uan save;” then he waved his hand northward, afterward at the sun; and finally he pointed at Shotaye, uttering,—­