“Here it is,” said the Tenna.
The Haka looked at the pointed pine bark, laughed, and said: “That is no arrow-head; that is nothing but pine bark. If I stab myself behind with your arrow-head, it won’t hurt me. I shall not die.”
“Let me see you stab yourself,” said the Tenna.
“Look at me. I’ll stab myself behind with it.”
The Haka stabbed himself, and the Tenna’s arrow-head broke; it did not hurt him a bit. “You see,” said he, “I am not dying.”
“Let me see your arrow-head,” said the Tenna.
He gave the arrow-point, and the Tenna stabbed himself in the same way that the Haka had. The arrow-head was very sharp and went into him, cut him,—cut his intestines. He fell over and lay on the ground, lay there groaning.
“You see that my arrow-head is good; it will kill any one,” said the Haka.
Right away the Tenna was dying; very soon he was dead. When the Tennas saw that their brother was dead, they rushed at the ten Hakas and killed them hand to hand before they could use arrows, before they could save themselves.
The Tennas went home, but the Hakas did not go home that evening.