“True it is,” replied the warriors. “It is in our hearts as your two chosen children—as the war-priests of our nation—that our people should be made happy as the days of the year go by; and we therefore think over all the beautiful dances, and now and then command that the most fitting of them shall appear. Now, our children, the people of the Home of the Eagles, are anxious to see our child, the daughter of the priest-chief, who has not come forth from her house, and whom we have never seen since she was a little girl. We have thought to order your dance of the Óinahe, and we would that without fail our daughter should be made to come forth or else die; therefore, our fathers, we have come to consult ye and to ask your advice.”
“Aha!” cried the Twain. “Then ye are anxious that this should be, are ye?”
“Yes,” they replied.
“Well, it shall come to pass as ye wish it, and the girl must die if she come not forth at the bidding of the Óinahe!”
“Aha!” ejaculated they both. “Thanks!”
“Yea, it shall be as ye wish. Make our days for us—name the times for preparation, and we shall be with ye to lead the Óinahe. The first time our dance will come forth, and the second time our dance will come forth, and the third time our dance will come forth, but the fourth time our dance comes forth, it will happen as ye wish it. It will certainly be finished as ye wish it.”
“Well! Thanks; we go!” (goodbye).
“Go ye,” said the gods to their children; and they went.
The Eagle was very unhappy with all this. He knew it all, for he understood everything that was said. Next morning he hung his head at the window with great sadness; so the girl, after she had eaten her morning meal, took some dainty bits to the window and said: “Why are you so unhappy? See, I have brought you some food. Eat!”
“I will not eat; I cannot eat,” replied the Eagle.
“Why not?” asked she. “I will not harm you; I am happy; I love you just as much as ever.”
“Alas, alas! my mother,” said the Eagle. “It is not with thoughts of myself that I am unhappy, but your father’s two war-priests are anxious that their children shall be made happy, and their children, the people of our town under the mountain, are longing to see you. They have said to one another that you never come forth; they have never seen you. Therefore they have ordered the Óinahe, that you may be tempted out. They went up to the home of Áhaiyúta and his younger brother, where they live with their grandmother, on the top of Thunder Mountain, and the two gods have said to them: ‘It shall come to pass as ye wish it.’ Therefore they will dance, and on the fourth day of their dancing it shall come to pass as they wish it. Indeed, it shall happen, my poor mother, that you shall be no more. Alas! I can do nothing; you can do nothing; why should I tarry longer with you? You must loosen my bonds and let me free.”
“As you like,” said the girl. “I suppose it must be as you say.” Then she loosened the Eagle’s bonds, and, straight as the pathway of an arrow, away he flew upward into the sky—even toward the zenith where the Sun rested at noon-time, and whither he soon arrived himself.
“Thou comest,” said the Sun.
“I do, my father. How art thou these many days?” said the Eagle to the Sun.
“Happy. Here, sit down.” There was a blanket already placed for him, and thereupon he sat; but he never looked to the right nor to the left, nor yet about the Sun-father’s splendid home. He said not a word. He only drooped his head, so sad was he.
“What is it, my child?” asked the Sun. “I suppose thou hast some errand, else why shouldst thou come? Surely it is not for nothing that thou wouldst come so far to see me.”
“Quite true,” answered the Eagle. “Alas! my child; alas, my mother! Day after day down in the home under the mountain the people dance that they may tempt her forth; yet she has never appeared. So her father’s war-priests are angry and have at last been to see the Twain in their home on Thunder Mountain, and the Twain have commanded that soon it shall come to pass as the people wish or that our beautiful maiden shall perish. Even tomorrow it shall be; so have the Twain said; and when the fourth dance comes out it shall come to pass, and our beautiful maiden shall be no more; thus have the Twain said. I cannot enrich my mother, the daughter of the priest-chief, thy beautiful child, with words of advice, with aid of mine own will; hence come I unto thee. What shall I do?”
“What shalt thou do?” repeated the Sun. “I know it is all as thou hast said. Know I not all these things? The Twain, whose powers are surpassed only by mine own, have they not commanded that it shall be? What shalt thou do but descend at once? Tell her to bathe herself and put on her finest garments tomorrow morning. Then, when the time comes, mount her upon thy shoulders and bear her up to me. Only possibly thou wilt have the great good fortune to reach my house with her. Possibly in thy journey hither it shall come to be, alas! as the Twain have said; for have not they said it should be, and are they not above all things else powerful?”
“Well, we’ll try to come.”
“But I will watch thee when thou art about to reach the mid-heavens.”
“Well, I go,” said the Eagle, rising.
“Very well,” responded the Sun; “happily mayest
