lacking a single belt.”

With a furious gesture the Red Priest turned and stared at the dancing girls who raised their bare arms, crying:

“We have dreamed, O Amochol! Let your Sorceress explain our dreams to us!”

And one after another, as their turns came, they leaped up from the ground and sprang forward. The first, a tawny, slender, mocking thing, flung wide her arms.

“Look, Sorceress! I dreamed of a felled sapling and a wolverine! What means my dream?”

And the slim, white figure, head bowed in her dark hair, answered quietly:

“O dancer of the Na-usin, who wears okwencha at the Onon-hou-aroria, yet is no Seneca, the felled sapling is thou thyself. Heed lest the wolverine shall scent a human touch upon thy breast!”