Terence looked up at the roof and grinned. 'I am waiting to see if your genii, _taipos_, _taniwhas_, or whoever are the slaves of the greenstone club, will bring it back to you the instant you express a wish,' he said. 'There is a smack of Aladdin and his lamp about the thing. Well, what next?' 'We must scale the fence behind the _whare_,' answered George, smiling. 'The sentries are stationed at intervals along the platform, and we must manage to dodge the nearest. We'll manage it--we _must_.' 'I'll take the first watch,' said Terence. 'No; I will, in case there is any talking to be done. I wish that we had another basket of food. It may go hard with us in the bush. Lie down and sleep while you may, old fellow.' Terence drew his mat over him as he lay upon his bed of fern, and with the readiness of a bushman dropped asleep, while George sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, thinking out details and planning, as far as he could beforehand, to meet developments. The hours passed, he heard the stealthy footsteps of the relief, and caught a word or two of the low-voiced colloquy as the guard made his report. And all the time Terence slept comfortably, though the time for his watch had come and gone. All at once George started, raised his head and listened intently. What was that thin, scratching noise at the back of the hut? He lightly laid his hand upon Terence's shoulder, and the practised bushman was instantly awake, alert and vigilant. 'Some one is cutting through the thatch,' George breathed into his comrade's ear. This was possible enough. The roof, which, after the Maori fashion of architecture, descended within a few feet of the earth, was thatched with _raupo_ and other reeds which, though thick, were soft and might easily be ripped by a sharp knife. The only question was the motive of the intruder. Presently a piece of _raupo_, detached from the thatch, fell upon the floor. The visitor, whoever he was, had penetrated the roof. George stole to the widening hole, Terence to the door, and so they waited, holding their revolvers by the barrel, ready for whatever might chance. '_Hortoni!_' Just the whispered word; but George's heart leaped, for the voice was Paeroa's, and he knew that his faithful ally, and not an enemy, stood without. 'I am here, O Whispering Wind,' he breathed back. 'Why----' 'Hush! Speak not, Hortoni. Do you and Mura take these knives and widen the hole. I will return.' Presently, as they ripped and cut, the Maori returned and whispered with his mouth at the hole: 'Te Taroa, whom the Hawk set to guard you, is asleep. Hasten, Hortoni, for there are evil spirits in the air, and Life and Death contend which shall have you.'