"We will go, we will go," said the Hakas. The fire was ready; the Tennas were there. They came earlier, and acted just as they had acted the second day. Ten more Hakas were killed by them that day. The Hakas would not go on the fourth day. The Tennas began now to kill Hakas whenever they found them out hunting, or fishing, whenever they saw them in the woods anywhere. When the Haka women went to dig roots, or find worms, or gather acorns, the Tennas killed them wherever they caught them. When the children went out to play or went to get water, they killed them. The Tennas killed on till only one old woman, Tsuwalkai Marimi, and her grandson, Tsawandi Kamshu, were left of all the Hakas. One evening Tsawandi Kamshu hung his bow (an old bow bound around closely with deer sinew) over his bed on the south side of the sweat-house. With this bow he hung an otter-skin quiver full of arrows. "My grandmother," said he in the night, "I may not come back to-morrow. If anything happens, the bow and the quiver and all that are with them will fall on the bed. You will know then that some one has killed me. But a child will rise from the spittle which I have left near the head of the bed; a little boy will come up from the ground." Tsuwalkai Marimi listened, said nothing, made no answer. Tsawandi Kamshu went out the next morning at daybreak, stayed out all that day. At dusk the bow fell with the quiver. The old woman began to cry. She cried bitterly. "All our people are dead," said she. "All our people are gone, and I am alone." She went around crying; went along the four sides of the house; went to where the bows, arrows, and otter-skin quivers were hanging; cried all that night, cried all the next day. The Tennas watched for the old woman, watched closely. They wanted to kill her, but they could not break, into the house, and she would not go out to them. They wanted to kill her and put an end to the last of the Hakas. While Tsuwalkai was crying the second night, the Tennas were near the house listening and watching. "The old woman is laughing," said they. "She is having some feast; that is why she is laughing. She must be glad, that old woman." Tsuwalkai heard these words of her enemies. "Oh, Tennas, do not talk that way," said she. "Something may happen yet that will hurt you. Some one may come who will make your hearts sore. You may drop tears yet, you may be sorry." The old woman cried the third night and third day. The fourth night she dropped no tears, but she could not sleep. In the middle of the fourth night she heard crying on the ground near Tsawandi Kamshu's sleeping-place. A little baby was crying, rolling, struggling, wailing. The old woman listened, she heard "U ná, u ná." She was frightened at first. "I must be dreaming of a baby, I must be dreaming," said she. "Oh, my people are making me dream. I hear a noise like the crying of a baby in my sweat-house. Oh, it is no baby; I am only dreaming."