Nevertheless, one night when Bigham--who was for ever whispering among the men after dark--dismissed three of his cronies after a muttered colloquy, the dark form of the chief rose from the lifeboat, beneath which the meeting had taken place. He looked cautiously about him, and then, seeing no one but his own guards, who patrolled the deck night and day, leaped lightly down and stole away. But George had observed him, and deliberated whether he should warn Bigham. Finally, however, he decided to wait, feeling confident that the mate would not take any important step without consulting him, in which case he would be in a better position to protest against any foolhardy venture. The days wore on, the light winds growing lighter and lighter, until at length there fell a dead calm; the _Stella_ floated idly upon the vast bosom of the sea, and the lively chatter of the Maoris gave way to gloomy silence, while their scarred faces scowled, and their fierce brown eyes flashed wrath at the white sailors, as if they alone were responsible for the vagaries of the weather. One afternoon--it was the third day of the calm--as George swung drowsily in his hammock, he was aroused by a shrill scream and the patter of feet along the deck. Again the scream rang out, high and quavering, and presently was drowned by a deep-toned chant, chorussed by a hundred rich male voices which rose and fell in unison. 'They are propitiating the wind-god, I suppose,' mused George, feeling too lazy to get up and find out. 'Yesterday they threw their greenstone ornaments overboard; but it did no good. What children they are for all their strength and--Hullo! Good heavens!' He sat suddenly upright, with the result that he pitched out of his hammock with a nasty bump; but he was up in a second, and as he raced up the forehatch, the words of the chant came clearly to his horrified ears: '... Come, then, Te Kaihuia, old friend! Come, O thou ancient and venerable Palm Tree! Come, beloved uncle, and be sacrificed straightway! The deep sea waits for thee; For us wait the gentle, favouring winds To bear us home. So come....' The Maoris were grouped in a double crescent, the horns touching the starboard gangway, beside which stood Te Karearea, wearing the complacent expression of a man who generously sacrifices a most cherished possession for the good of the public. Opposite to him two big Maoris bent over a very old and withered creature, whom, with many expressions of endearment, they were encouraging to take a header into the sea. The old man--the 'ancient Palm Tree' of the chant--was Te Kaihuia, an uncle of Te Karearea, and since the sacrifice of the greenstone ornaments had not availed to propitiate the god of winds and storms, the chief had graciously given permission for his aged relative to be thrown into the sea. Meanwhile the singers, at the top of their lusty voices, asserted the cheerful acquiescence of the victim.