In an Indian dance there is no need of engaging partners, though it is not unusual for such as fancy one another to seize the opportunity of so doing.  The mere fact of a certain boy stamping the earth beside a certain girl on a certain occasion, or a certain maiden tripping by the side of a particular youth, does not call for that active gossiping which would result if a couple were to dance with one another alone at one of our balls.  A civilized ball is professedly for enjoyment alone; an Indian dance is a religious act, a public duty.

The society who are now exercising their calisthenics in the court has much similarity to the Koshare, yet their main functions are distinct.  They are called the Cuirana.

If, during the conversation in which Topanashka informed his daughter as to the origin of the Koshare and the ideas underlying their role in Indian society, Say Koitza had inquired of him about the Cuirana he might have given her very similar information.

With this marked distinction, however, that whereas the former consider themselves summer people, the latter are regarded as winter men.  While the Koshare are specially charged with the duty of furthering the ripening of the fruit, the Cuirana assist the sprouting of the seed.

The main work of the Koshare is therefore to be done in the summer and autumn, that of the Cuirana in the spring; and, moreover, while on certain occasions the latter are masters of ceremonies also, they never act as clowns or official jesters.  Their special dance is never obscene, like that of the Delight Makers.

During their performance, therefore, the public did not exhibit the unbounded hilarity which marked that of their predecessors.  The audience looked on quietly, and even with stolidity.  There was nothing to excite laughter, and since the figures were slavish repetitions, it became monotonous.  Some of the spectators withdrew to their houses, and those who remained belonged to the cliffs, whence they had come to witness the rite, as a serious and even sacred duty.

While the dance of the Cuirana is in progress, two of the white painted clowns are standing outside of the big building, and at some distance from the new house of Yakka hanutsh, in earnest conversation.  Heat and exercise have partially effaced the paint, so that the features of Tyope Tihua, and of Zashue, the husband of Say, can be easily recognized.

“I tell you, satyumishe,” asserts the latter, “you are mistaken, or words have been spoken to you that are not true.  This wife of mine is good.  She has nothing to do with evil, nor has she tampered with it.  You have done her wrong, Tyope, and that is not right.”  His features, already distorted by the paint, took on an expression of anger.

The other responded hastily, “And I tell you, Zashue Tihua, that I saw your wife sitting by the hearth with Shotaye,”—­his voice trembled at the mention of her name,—­“and I heard when that mean, low aniehna”—­his eyes flashed, giving a terrible expression to his already monstrously disfigured countenance—­“spoke to the yellow corn!”