Among those looking on we may recognize some of our acquaintances.  Seated upon one of the terraces, his chin resting on his hand, is Topanashka, who looks down upon the actors with a grave, cold, seemingly indifferent gaze.  Say Koitza stands in the doorway of her dwelling, her wan face wearing an immobile expression.  Her little girl, elegantly arrayed in a breech-clout and turquoise necklace, clings to her mother’s wrap with one hand while the other disappears in her gaping mouth.  The child is half afraid, half curious; and has an anxious, troubled look.  Shyuote, however, evinces no sign of embarrassment or humility.  Planted solidly on his feet, with legs well apart and both arms arched, he gapes and stares at everybody and everything, occasionally fixing his glance upon the resplendent sky overhead.  In vain we search for Zashue and his elder son, Okoya.

The mass of spectators—­hundreds are here already and more are coming constantly—­do not content themselves with devout and reverent admiration.  Criticism is going on, and it is exercised with the most unlimited freedom.  Should any one attract attention to himself, either by the perfection or imperfection of his dress measured by the standard of the critic, he is not only mentioned by name and his garb audibly criticised, but pointed at approvingly or derisively.  The men are made the butt of their own sex among the audience; while the women praise or depreciate, according as the occasion may seem to require, the female members of the procession.  Frequently, when the costume of some dusky beauty in the arena is the object of publicly expressed admiration, some other within hearing may be seen casting a covert glance of disappointment at her own less successful apparel.  Or she fixes her eyes upon her gorgeous necklace with evident gratification, satisfied that her own get-up is handsomer than the one that the others so much admire, while she soothes her injured vanity with haughty contempt for the taste of those who see so much in her rival to admire.

The beat of the drum ceases, the wild song is hushed, and the dancers break rank, seeking rest.  They collect in groups or mingle with the bystanders, chatting, laughing, panting.  Their violent exercise has played sad havoc with the paint upon their faces and bodies, rendering them less fantastic but more ludicrous.  The drummer occasionally raps his instrument to satisfy himself that it is in order, otherwise there is a lull of which all avail themselves to take part in the general conversation.  Children resume their sports in the court-yard.

Suddenly loud peals of laughter are heard on every side, and all eyes turn simultaneously toward the passage-way whence are issuing half a dozen strange-looking creatures.  They do not walk into the polygon, but rather tumble into it, running, hopping, stumbling, cutting capers, like a troop of clumsy, ill-trained clowns.  When they have reached the centre of the open space, laughter becomes louder and more boisterous all around.  Such expressions of mirth do not merely signify amusement, but are meant as demonstrations of applause.  The Indian does not applaud by clapping his hands or stamping his feet, but evinces his approbation by laughter and smirks.