He thought Mark was a very long time gone; he got up and walked round the huge trunk of the sycamore, and looked up into it to see if any immense boa-constrictor was coiled among its great limbs. He thought they would some day build a hut up there on a platform of poles. Far out over the water he saw the Unknown Island, and remembered that when they sailed there in the ship there was no knowing what monsters or what enchantments they might encounter. So he walked out from the trees into the field to look for some moly to take with them, and resist Circe. The bird’s-foot lotus he knew was not it. There was one blue spot of veronica still, and another tiny blue flower which he did not know, besides the white honeysuckle clover at which the grey bees were busy, and would scarce stir from under his footsteps. He found three button mushrooms, and put them in his pocket. Wandering on among the buttercup stalks and bunches of grass, like a butterfly drawn hither and thither by every speck of colour, he came to a little white flower on a slender stem a few inches high, which he gathered for moly. Putting the precious flower--good against sorcery--in his breast-pocket for safety, he rose from his knees, and saw Mark coming by the sycamores. Mark was hot and tired with running, yet he had snatched time enough to bring four cherries for Bevis. He had the burning-glass--a lens unscrewed from the telescope, and sitting on the grass they focussed the sun’s rays on a piece of paper. The lens was powerful and the summer sun bright, so that in a few seconds there was a tiny black speck, then the faintest whiff of bluish smoke, then a leap of flame, and soon another, till the paper burned, and their fire was lit. As the little hut blazed up they put some more boughs on, and the dead leaves attached to them sent up a thin column of smoke. “The savages will see that,” said Mark, “and come swarming down from the hills.” “We ought to have made the fire in a hole,” said Bevis, “and put turf on it.” “What ever shall we do?” said Mark. “They’ll be here in a minute.” “Fetich,” said Bevis. “I know, cut that stick sharp at the end, tie a handful of grass on it--be quick--and run down towards the elms and stick it up. Then they’ll think we’re doing fetich, and won’t come any nearer.” “First-rate,” said Mark, and off he went with the stick, and thrust it into the sward with a wisp of grass tied to the top. Bevis piled on the branches, and when he came back there was a large fire. Then the difficulty was how to cook the bird? If they put it on the ashes, it would burn and be spoiled; if they hung it up, they could not make it twist round and round, and they had no iron pot to boil it; or earthenware pot to drop red-hot stones in, and so heat the water without destroying the vessel. The only thing they could do was to stick it on a stick, and hold it to the fire till it was roasted, one side at a time.