“Give food to the children,” directed the old man.  “When they have eaten and are gone I shall speak to you.”

The fire crackled and blazed, and ruddy flashes shot across the features of the woman.  Was it a mere reflection of the fire, or had her features quivered and coloured?  The old man scanned those features with a cold, steady look.

She removed from the fire the sooty pot of clay in which venison cut in small pieces was stewing together with corn, dark beans, and a few roots and herbs as seasoning.  Then she called out,—­

“Shyuote, come and eat!  Where is Okoya?”

The latter alone heard the invitation, for Shyuote had gone to sleep on the hides.  The elder brother shook him, and went into the kitchen.  He was followed by the child who staggered from drowsiness.  The mother meanwhile had placed on the floor a pile of corn-cakes.  Beside it, in an earthen bowl decorated inside and out with geometrical lines, steamed the stew.  Dinner was ready; the table spread.

To enjoy this meal both lads squatted, but Shyuote, still half asleep, lost his balance and tumbled over.  Angry at the merriment which this created, the boy hastily grabbed the food, but his mother interfered.

“Don’t be so greedy, uak,—­’urchin.’  Remember Those Above,” she said; and Shyuote, imitating the example of Okoya, crossly muttered a prayer, and scattered crumbs before him.  Then only, both fell to eating.

This was done by simply folding a slice of the cake to form a primitive ladle, and dipping the contents of the stew out with it.  Thus they swallowed meat, broth, and finally the ladle also.  Okoya arose first, uttering a plainly audible hoa.  Shyuote ate longer; at last he wiped his mouth with the seam of his wrap, grumbled something intended for thanksgiving, and strolled back to his resting place in the front room.  Okoya went out into the court-yard to be alone with his forebodings.  The sight of his mother seemed oppressive to him.

After the boys had gone the woman emptied the remainder of the stew back into the pot, filled the painted bowl with water, and put both vessels in a corner.  Then she sat down, leaning against the wall, looking directly toward her father.  Her face was thin and wan, her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes had a suppressed look of uneasiness.

The old man remained quietly indifferent as long as the meal lasted; then he rose, peeped cautiously into the outer apartment, resumed his seat, and spoke in a low tone,—­

“Is it true that you have listened to kamonyitza,—­’black corn’?”

The woman started.  “Who says so?” she answered with sudden haste.

“The Koshare,” replied the old man, looking at her with a cold steady gaze.

“What do I care for them,” exclaimed his daughter.  Her lips curled with an air of disdain.

“It may be,” spoke her father, in measured tones, “that you do not wish to hear from them; but I know that they care for your doings.”