She placed the pot with the stew in a corner and sat down again, leaning against the wall.  No sleepiness affected her.  There was too much to think of as yet.  Her thoughts returned to the absorbing subject of the day, and with these thoughts, random at first, a pale, wan figure rose before her inner eye,—­a form well, only too well, known to her; that of Say Koitza.  She saw that figure as she had seen it not long ago,—­crouching before that very fire in bitterest despair, bewailing her own lot, lamenting her imminent untimely death, and yet without one single word of reproach for her who had beguiled her into doing what now might result in the destruction of both.  Was not that thin, trembling woman her victim?  Was she not the one who had led Say astray?  The Indian knows not what conscience is, but he feels it all the same; and Shotaye, ignorant of the nature of remorse, nevertheless grew sad.

Indeed she it was who had beguiled the poor frail creature,—­she it was who had caused her to perform an act which, however immaterial in fact, still entailed punishment of the severest kind according to Indian notions and creed.  She was the real culprit, not Say,—­poor, innocent, weak-minded Say.  Shotaye felt that she had done wrong, and that she alone deserved to suffer.  But would her punishment save the other?  Hardly, according to Indian ideas.  Therefore, while it dawned upon her that by accusing herself boldly and publicly she might perhaps ward off the blow from the head of her meek and gentle accomplice, that thought was quickly stifled by the other, that it was impracticable.  Again a voice within her spoke boldly, Save yourself regardless of the other.

Yet she discarded that advice.  She could not forsake her victim.  For in addition to the legitimate motives of sympathy, another and stronger reason prevailed,—­the dread of the very powers whom she thought to have invoked in Say’s behalf, and to whose dark realm she fancied that she would be fettered and still faster riveted by committing an action which she regarded as worse than all her other deeds.  Dismissing every thought of self she resolved to remain true to Say, happen what might.  Shotaye had almost become—­

                    “part of the power that still
        Produceth good, whilst ever scheming ill.”

She believed that death stood plainly at her door.  Nevertheless she hated to die.  The philosophy of careless, frivolous resignation could not satisfy her strong vitality, still less her stronger feelings of hatred against her enemies.  She felt that there might be a bare possibility of saving her companion; and the wish to save herself at the same time, and in the very teeth as it were of the Koshare, grew stronger and stronger.  It waxed to an intense longing for life and revenge.  But what was to be done?  There was the riddle, and to solve it she thought and thought.  Shotaye became oblivious of all around her, completely absorbed in her musings.