“Yes, indeed;” the chief of the Koshare now recollected.  “I know; I recollect well.”  His eyes suddenly brightened; they assumed an expression of cunning as well as of suspicion.  His quick glance moved back and forth from one of his visitors to the other.  “So you found nothing?  Then there is nothing!  You were right, Zashue; your wife is good.”  He gave a chuckle which he intended for a benevolent smile.

“See,” Say’s husband exclaimed, turning to Tyope; “the Naua believes as I do.  My wife is no—­” the evil word he suppressed in time.  He stopped, biting his lips in embarrassment.

Tyope’s features moved not.  He spoke to the chief of the Delight Makers as quietly and calmly as possible,—­

“I believe as you do, nashtio; but while Say may be guiltless, Shotaye is not.”

“Hush!” the Naua sternly interrupted; “think of those here.”  He pointed toward the symbols.  “Don’t you know that they must not hear the name of that woman?”

Tyope replied hastily, and eager to drown the reprimand his chief had given him,—­

“What shall we do, Naua?”

The old man became impatient.  “Don’t you see that I am at work?  I am busy.  Those here,” he again nodded at the idols, “leave me no peace.  I must be with them until the last otshanyi begins.  In three days we go to the kaaptsh,—­you, he, all our brethren,—­and then we may speak.  Now leave me alone.  Go!  Leave me!  Go!  Go!” he cried, and waved his hand upward.  He was not to be spoken to any longer; he began to beat his drum and took up the low chant again.  Zashue hurriedly climbed out of the estufa, and Tyope followed with an angry face.  When the latter was on the open ground again, Zashue stepped up to him and said in a very decided tone,—­

“You see now, satyumishe, that Say is innocent.  Hereafter, Tyope, leave her alone.”  Turning about, he walked toward the large house.  Tyope cast after him a look less of anger than of bitter disappointment.

The last act of the great ceremony began.  A tremendous shout sounded from the outer entrance to the gallery leading into the court-yard of the great house.  The chant arose stronger and louder than ever before, and several drums rumbled at once.  Again were the terraces filled with people, the walls below lined with spectators.  Topanashka sat on the roof, cold and impassable.  Say Koitza leaned in the doorway of her home, with a quiet, almost smiling, countenance.

A long array of couples, dressed as before but painted red, opened the procession; then came the Cuirana, and last the Koshare.  Topanashka arose and joined the dancers; the Tapop stood beside him, and both stamped along, keeping time as if they were young once more.  The singers were reinforced by several aged men with snow-white hair, three of whom wore dark wraps, sleeveless and covered with red embroidery.  These were the chief penitents; those without badges or distinctive dress, the principal shamans of the