Why mourn ye grandchildren, why mourn ye? Give me plumes of the spaces, grandchildren, That related I be to the regions, That uplifted I be to the cloud-heights, That my footsteps be countries and countries; So I bear ye full swift on my shoulders To the place of thy people and country. K‘yäk´lu took of his plume-wands the lightest and choicest; and the Duck gave to him her two strong pinion-feathers that he might pendant them therewith, making them far reaching and far-seeing. And the Rainbow arched himself and stooped nigh to them whilst K‘yäk´lu, breathing on the plumes, approached him and fastened them to his heart side. And while with bent head, all white and glistening wet, K‘yäk´lu said the sacred words, not turning to one side nor to the other, behold! the Rainbow shadow gleamed full brightly on his forehead like a little rainbow, (even as the great sky itself gleams little in a tiny dew-drop) and became painted thereon, and _í‘hlimna_. "Thanks this day!" said the Rainbow. "Mount, now, on my shoulders, grandson!" The Rainbow unbent himself lower that K‘yäk´lu might mount; then he arched himself high amidst the clouds, bearing K‘yäk´lu upward as in the breath a mote is borne, and the Duck spread her wings in flight toward the south. Thitherward, like an arrow, the Rainbow-worm straightened himself forward and followed until his face looked into the Lake of the Ancients, the mists whereof were to him breath and substance. And there in the plain to the north of Kâ´‘hluëlane, K‘yäk´lu descended even ere the sun was fully entered, and while yet it was light, the Rainbow betook himself swiftly back. But alas! K‘yäk´lu was weary and lame. He could not journey farther, but sat himself down to rest and ponder the way. THE TARRYING OF K‘YÄK´LU IN THE PLAIN, AND HIS DISMAY. Now, as he sat there, all silent, came across the plains the shouts and harangues of the Kâ´yemäshi as they called loudly to one another, telling, like children, of the people who had but then forded the wide river, and passed on to the eastward "with such great ado," said they. For the children of the Twain knew not yet the people of their parents, nor did their parents tell them aught, save to bid them hide in the mountains; for they willed not that their shame be made known whilst the hearts of their erstwhile people were so sore with anguish.