The Sun went more slowly, gave her time, and she hurried on.
Titindi Maupa all this while was hurrying, going on quickly; and he sang as he went. His song was of Paiowa, Wakara’s youngest daughter, a maiden far off in the west.
Wakara had a great many daughters. All the stars in the sky were his children, and all his daughters were married but this one, the youngest, the one whom Titindi Maupa was going to marry if her father would give her.
He went along the Daha, went as the stream flows, swam across and sat down to smoke. When he had emptied his pipe, he went up on the mountain ridge west of the river, reached the top, and walked some distance down on the western slope, sat again and smoked a second time. Now Titildi Marimi, his sister, had crossed the river and was following. She came to where her brother had sat to smoke the first time.
“I will come up with you soon,” said she. “You cannot go from me now;” and she followed on, followed quickly.
The brother, when he smoked the second time, sat at a little spring on the western slope of the mountain ridge; the sister reached the ridge from the top; she saw her brother a little below her. He heard some one behind, looked up, and saw Titildi Marimi. He held his head down, he said nothing.
“I shall be with you soon,” cried the sister. “We can go on together. You have come a long way to find a good smoking-place.”
He said nothing, looked at the ground, waited for his sister. Soon she was there with him.
“My brother, I am tired,” said she, “give me tobacco; I wish to smoke.”
He gave her tobacco; she smoked.