While the people were talking about the arrow, two men swept in through the door. No one saw their faces or their heads, just their legs and shadows. "Give them room, let them in," said Waida Dikit. "Where can they sit?" asked Tsaroki. "Give each a place on the east side," said Waida Dikit. The two, Patkilis and Sedit, went to the east side and sat down. Nobody had seen Waida Werris come, but he was in the house. When leaving home that morning, Waida Werris said to Waiti, his brother,-- "You will stay and keep house, as you do always. You will be here, but you will see me all the time, you will see me night and day. Watch me; they will do other things there besides playing on flutes." Patkilis and Sedit asked Waida Dikit if Waida Werris had come. "I do not know where he is," replied the old man. "No one has seen him." "Oh, he will not come," said many people. "What kind of a person is Waida Werris? He is nobody. What do we want of him?" Waida Werris was sitting there all the time listening. Waida Dikit knew well what kind of person he was, but said nothing. That night after all invited people had come, Waida Dikit said: "Listen, all you people here present. I have called this gathering to find who is the best flute-player, who can make the best music in this world. Let us begin. Let each play alone." Tsaroki began the trial. "I will begin," said he to his brother Hawt, "then let the others play. You can play when you like." "I am satisfied," said Hawt. "I will play last." "That is well," answered Tsaroki. "I will play first, all will follow, and you may play last." Tsaroki began. He played a little while, not long; played well. Kanhlalas played next. All liked his music. Watwut Kiemila played third; played splendidly. "Go ahead and play, all you people," said Waida Dikit. Tsileu Herit played best up to his time, played till almost morning, till just before daylight. The inside of the sweat-house had become red, and some asked,-- "Why is it red everywhere inside the sweat-house?" "We do not know," answered others; "something makes it red." One man went up to Waida Dikit and asked, "Why is it red inside the sweat-house?" "I will tell you. Do you see Tsileu Herit there? Well, he has been playing all night, the breath is gone out of him, he is all red, and the whole sweat-house is red from him." About daylight Tsileu stopped, and then it grew as dark as in a house when a fire is put out in the night. Now Tsaik played all day, and at sundown the sweat-house was blue, for Tsaik had grown blue.