The old man clapped his hands.
Naked but for a white cotton breech-cloth, a boy of about eighteen stepped out of the crowd and stood before him, his hands crossed over his chest, his head bowed.
The old man made the sign of the cross over him and turned away.
Slowly, the boy began to walk round the writhing heap of snakes.
He had completed the first circuit and was half-way through the second when, from among the dancers, a tall man wearing the mask of a coyote and holding in his hand a whip of plaited leather, advanced towards him.
The boy moved on as though unaware of the other's existence.
The coyote-man raised his whip, there was a long moment of expectancy, then a swift movement, the whistle of the lash and its loud flat-sounding impact on the flesh.
The boy's body quivered; but he made no sound, he walked on at the same slow, steady pace.
The coyote struck again, again; and at every blow at first a gasp, and then a deep groan went up from the crowd.
The boy walked.
Twice, thrice, four times round he went.
The blood was streaming.
Five times round, six times round.
Suddenly Lenina covered her face shish her hands and began to sob.
"Oh, stop them, stop them!" she implored.
But the whip fell and fell inexorably.
Seven times round.
Then all at once the boy staggered and, still without a sound, pitched forward on to his face.
Bending over him, the old man touched his back with a long white feather, held it up for a moment, crimson, for the people to see then shook it thrice over the snakes.
A few drops fell, and suddenly the drums broke out again into a panic of hurrying notes; there was a great shout.
The dancers rushed forward, picked up the snakes and ran out of the square.
Men, women, children, all the crowd ran after them.
A minute later the square was empty, only the boy remained, prone where he had fallen, quite still.
Three old women came out of one of the houses, and with some difficulty lifted him and carried him in.
The eagle and the man on the cross kept guard for a little while over the empty pueblo; then, as though they had seen enough, sank slowly down through their hatchways, out of sight, into the nether world.
Lenina was still sobbing.
"Too awful," she kept repeating, and all Bernard's consolations were in vain.
"Too awful!
That blood!"
She shuddered.
"Oh, I wish I had my soma."
There was the sound of feet in the inner room.
Lenina did not move, but sat with her face in her hands, unseeing, apart.
Only Bernard turned round.
The dress of the young man who now stepped out on to the terrace was Indian; but his plaited hair was straw-coloured, his eyes a pale blue, and his skin a white skin, bronzed.
"Hullo. Good-morrow," said the stranger, in faultless but peculiar English.
"You're civilized, aren't you?
You come from the Other Place, outside the Reservation?"
"Who on earth ... ?" Bernard began in astonishment.
The young man sighed and shook his head.
"A most unhappy gentleman."
And, pointing to the bloodstains in the centre of the square, "Do you see that damned spot?" he asked in a voice that trembled with emotion.
"A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from behind her hands. "I wish I had my soma\"
"I ought to have been there," the young man went on.
"Why wouldn't they let me be the sacrifice?
I'd have gone round ten times-twelve, fifteen.
Palowhtiwa only got as far as seven.
They could have had twice as much blood from me.
The multitudinous seas incarnadine."
He flung out his arms in a lavish gesture; then, despairingly, let them fall again.