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“But what did you do?” Dorcas insisted on knowing.

“We dug and planted. All this was new to us. When there was no work in the fields we learned the ways of cooking corn, and to make pots. Hunting-tribes do not make pots. How should we carry them from place to place on our backs? We cooked in baskets with hot stones, and sometimes when the basket was old we plastered it with mud and set it on the fire. But the People of the Corn made pots of coiled clay and burned it hard in the open fires between the houses. Then there was the ceremony of the Corn to learn, the prayers and the dances. Oh, we had work enough! And if ever anything was ever said or done to us which was not pleasant, Waits-by-the-Fire would say to the one who had offended, ‘We are only the servants of the Corn, but it would be a pity if the same thing happened to you that happened to the grandfather of your next-door neighbor!’

“And what happened to him?”

“Oh, a plague of sores, a scolding wife,” or anything that she chanced to remember from the time she had been Given-to-the-Sun. That stopped them. But most of them held us to be under the protection of the Corn Spirit, and when our Shaman would disappear for two or three days–that was when she went to the mountain to visit Shungakela–we said that she had gone to pray to her own gods, and they accepted that also.”

“And all this time no one recognized her?”

“She had painted her face for a Shaman,” said the Corn Woman slowly, “and besides it was nearly forty years. The woman who had been kind to her was dead and there was a new Priest of the Sun. Only the one who had painted her with the sign of the Sun was left, and he was doddering.” She seemed about to go on with her story, but the oldest dancing woman interrupted her.

“Those things helped,” said the dancing woman, “but it was her thought which hid her. She put on the thought of a Shaman as a man puts on the thought of a deer or a buffalo when he goes to look for them. That which one fears, that it is which betrays one. She was a Shaman in her heart and as a Shaman she appeared to them.”

“She certainly had no fear,” said the Corn Woman, “though from the first she must have known–

“It was when the seed corn was gathered that we had the first hint of trouble,” she went on. “When it was ripe the priests and Caciques went into the fields to select the seed for next year. Then it was laid up in the god-houses for the priestess of the Corn to keep. That was in case of an enemy or a famine when the people might be tempted to eat it. After it was once taken charge of by the priestess of the Corn they would have died rather than give it up. Our women did not know how they should get the seed to bring away from the Stone House except to ask for it as the price of their year’s labor.”

“But couldn’t you have just taken some from the field?” inquired Dorcas. “Wouldn’t it have grown just the same?”

“That we were not sure of; and we were afraid to take it without the good-will of the Corn Goddess. Centcotli her name was. Waits-by-the-Fire made up her mind to ask for it on the first day of the Feast of the Corn Harvest, which lasts four days, and is a time of present-giving and good-willing. She would have got it, too, if it had been left to the Corn Women to decide. But the Cacique of the Sun, who was always watching out for a chance to make himself important, insisted that it was a grave matter and should be taken to Council. He had never forgiven the Shaman, you see, for that old story about the Corn Maiden.