'You mean creature! How do you expect me to sleep in peace?' complained Terence. 'I shall dream all night of you and your magic club.' George curled himself up in the heart of a flax-bush. 'Don't tread upon me if your dreams make you walk in your sleep,' he laughed. 'I'm for bed.' 'Me too,' said Terence. 'I'm looking for a soft spot.' CHAPTER XV POKEKE, THE SULLEN ONE It was high day when George awoke, and the sweet, confused odours that stole from the forest on the breath of the morning filled him with a pleasant sense of well-being as he stretched his great limbs and rubbed the last mists of sleep out of his eyes. A few paces away Terence still slept; but George, without awaking him, set himself to study the lie of the land. It was an exquisite scene, full of light and colour. The sombre green of the dense bush encircling the island was flecked with the glowing scarlet of _rata_ blossoms and the beautiful white stars of the clematis which garlanded and festooned the tall trees, while with harsh scream and cackle occasional flocks of parrakeets swept by in glancing flight, the crimson and green of their gaudy wings flashing in the sunshine like fragments of a rainbow. It was difficult to realise that, a mile or less away, five or six hundred grim-faced warriors lurked in the peaceful forest glades. But it was in no romantic mood that George took his bearings, for his dominant wish was to discover some way out of the trap in which they were set, and which he meant to leave as soon as possible after having withdrawn his parole. The whole of the island plain was densely covered with New Zealand flax,[1] the ground being for the most part swampy, save close to the road, from hill to river. Once among these flax-clumps, George thought, a hard-pressed fugitive would have an excellent chance of escape; for the so-called flax-bush is a collection of broad, stiff, upstanding leaves, tough enough to stop a bullet, and dense enough to conceal a man, who might dodge from bush to bush and reach the river in safety. [1] _Phormiun tenax_: not the true flax. 'That is the most satisfactory bit of landscape,' murmured unpoetic George, and had just turned to greet Terence, who had hailed him, when a voice close behind him said: 'Salutations, Hortoni, and to you, Mura, salutations. I have looked for you since the dawn. Where did you sleep last night?' 'Here,' replied George, determined not to give away the least advantage by overmuch speech. 'Why did you leave the bivouac?' 'I think the bivouac left us.' George smiled pleasantly. 'We woke to find it deserted, and such a dreadful racket arose that it was impossible to sleep through the din.' He interpreted to Terence, who nodded emphatically, preferring this method on account of his admitted tendency to 'open his mouth and put his foot in it.' 'And so you removed to this side?' pursued the chief.