Again the strident notes of the rattles sounded. The dancers took up their trees, elevated and adjusted them in their mouths and danced as before. There was the same volume of coördinated sounds, of gourd rattles, of resonant shells and the swish, swish of the garments. Again the white mask danced on.... It grew dark and I left the plaza, in a daze. What did it all mean—the painted box, the swallowed trees, the white mask?