against the skies and rend them.

Thus sang the old man, my father Makedama, far down in the deeps of

the cleft. He sang it in a still, small voice, but, line after line,

his song was caught up by the thousands who stood on the slopes above,

and thundered to the heavens till the mountains shook with its sound.

Moreover, the noise of their crying opened the bosom of a heavy rain-

cloud that had gathered as they mourned, and the rain fell in great

slow drops, as though the sky also wept, and with the rain came