The day dawned in all the lovely colours of the tropics, and the scene upon which George gazed was but a more radiant rendering of the exquisite picture of the previous evening. Bustle already reigned upon deck, and the captain's gig floated gently upon the ingoing tide, ready to bear the skipper ashore. On the island all was quiet to the eye, and apparently the inhabitants had not yet risen, for not a soul was to be seen. With a cheery 'Good-morning, Mr. Haughton. I'll be back in an hour,' Captain Varsall set off for the shore, and George went to work with a will, bending his strong back over the cases in the hold and arranging a number of iron rods for easier stowage in the boats. So absorbed was he in what had to be done, that his thoughts were wholly diverted from the shore until, half an hour or so after the departure of the gig, he was startled to hear the sharp smack of a rifle, fired not far away. He left his work, and hurried to the side of the ship, an example which was followed by most of the crew. A singular sight met their eyes. A boat-load of Maoris was being pulled with frantic haste towards the brig, while on the island men and women, brown and white, were running wildly and, it seemed, aimlessly in all directions. Shots, too, became frequent, though neither their source nor result could be distinguished, since they were fired somewhere behind the houses. Then, while the watchers wondered, Captain Varsall was seen to run headlong out of the Residency, turn and discharge his revolver thrice in quick succession, and flee at top speed towards the beach. All at once he stopped, threw his arms above his head, and, just as a puff of smoke curled lightly upwards from one of the windows, fell face down upon the sand, and lay still, with arms outstretched. [Illustration: Captain Varsall was seen to flee at top speed towards the beach (page 28).] But there was scant time to lament the captain's fate, for a crowd of brown men clambered over the rail and dropped upon the deck before George could move from the spot whence he gazed, fascinated, at the vivid picture of life and death. Then, even as he turned, a deep musical voice at his side exclaimed: 'Move an inch, young Pakeha,[2] and you shall walk swiftly to Reinga.[3] [2] White man. [3] The abode of departed spirits. George possessed a good working knowledge of the Maori tongue; but it needed no linguist to interpret the significance of a gun, held in powerful hands and presented at his head; nor was it less obvious that a rising of the convicts had taken place with complete success for the mutineers. Resistance was out of the question, for another lot of Maoris boarded the brig, and ere the bewildered remnant of the crew had fairly grasped the fact that they were attacked, they were roughly bundled into the hold and the hatches battened down.