The three principal personages remained in converse long after the usual time of separation. The night was fine, and the surroundings were foreign to the idea of early repose. The sounds of the fire-breathing agencies, above and below, grew more distinct in the hush of night. An occasional steam jet shooting into the air appeared like an emissary sent to warn of approaching danger. "I should like to have seen the terraces by night," said Massinger, "but it is not a country for late travelling." "No, indeed," said Warwick; "a false step, a stumble into the wrong pool, has before now cost a man his life. I once saw a poor dog scalded to death in a moment. I think you will find Rotorua and the Valley of Geysers sufficiently interesting. If you care for Maori legends, you should ask Erena to tell you the tale of her ancestress, the beautiful Hinemoa." "What a pretty name! And was she an ancestress of yours? What did she do to acquire immortality?--for I have heard her name, as a heroine, without being told the legend." "When we reach Rotorua, I will show you Mokoia, the island to which she swam," said Erena, with a smile. "Also the point Wai-rere-wai on the mainland, from which she started; besides the hot spring which she reached, close to her lover's village. It is a long swim, but I suppose the girls of her day were more accustomed to the water than we are now." * * * * * The third day was nearing its close when the little party, having skirted the three-cornered deep blue lake of Taka-tapu, threaded the tangled forests over the Waipa plain, and ascended the bare hills of the range which looks on Rotorua. The lake, gleaming in the sunlight, lay beneath them, with the fumaroles, steam-hammers, and geysers of Whakarewarewa in full blast. CHAPTER VIII It was decided to camp on the border of the lake between the village of Ohinemutu, where the old historic _pah_, with its grim carven giants of the Wharepuni, looks frowningly down upon the little Roman Catholic chapel. Clouds of steam arose in all directions above them, while the scattered pools exhibited the pervading warmth combined with sulphur fumes. "We are now on historic ground," said Warwick; "for, without counting Hinemoa--there is her island--all manner of legends abound; some of them horrible enough in all conscience, ghastly to a degree," he continued, gazing across the lake. "Mokoia looks peaceful enough now, with scarcely a hundred people on it all told. Yet what tales those rocks could tell! The island was a grand resort for the tribe in the days before gunpowder. In war-time they could paddle over from this side, and defy any enemy that had arrived on foot. There was no waterway to Rotorua. However, Hongi-ika-kai-tangata taught them a lesson." "What was that?"