 Book 3, Chapter 9, of In Search of the Castaways. All Library Rocks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit libraryrock.org. In Search of the Castaways are The Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne. Book 3, Chapter 9, Introduction to the Carnibals. The next morning at daybreak, a thick fog was climbing to the surface of the river. A portion of the vapours that saturated the air were condensed by the cold and lay as a dense cloud on the water, but the rays of the sun soon broke through the watery mass and melded away. A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with brushes, projected into the uniting steams. The sifter waters of the vaipa rushed against the current of the vaikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled with it, but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisily steams and carried it off quietly in its curse to the Pacific Ocean. When the vapour disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current of the vaikato. It was a canoe 70 feet long, five broad and three deep. The prowl raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the hole hallowed out of a trunk of a Kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom. It was swiftly roamed by eight oars, and steered with a puddle by a man seated in the stern. This man was a Talmari, about 45 years of age. Brow chested, muscular, with powerful developed hands and feet. His prominent and deeply furrowed brow, his fierce look and sinister expression gave him a formidable aspect. Tatooine Omocho, as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark of great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines who has not distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class cannot obtain these decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by the finish, and precision, and truth of the design, which sometimes covers the whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found to undergird the painful operation of Moko five times. The more illustrious, the more illustrated is the rule of New Zealand. Dumont de Ville has given some curious details as to this custom. He justly observes that Moko is the counterpart of the amoral bearings of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that there is a difference. The amoral bearings of Europe are frequently and prove only the merits of the first who bore them, and are no certificate of the merits of his descendants. While the individual coat of arms of the Maori is an irrefutable proof that it was earned by the display of extraordinary personal courage. The practice of tattooing independently of the consideration it procures has also a useful aspect. It gives the cutaneous system an increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemancy of the season and the incessant attacks of the mosquitoes. As to the sheaf who was skiering the canoe, there could be no mistake. The shaped albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer had five times scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition and betrayed it in his hardly bearing. His figure, draped in a large matte woven of formium-trimmed white dog skin, was clouted with a pair of cotton drawers, luts-drainered from recent comets. From the pendant lobe of his ear hung earrings of green jade and round his neck a crevary necklace of ponemos, a kind of jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. It is sighed laid an English rifle and a patu-patu, a kind of two-headed axe of an emerald color and 18 inches long. Beside him set nine armoured warriors of inferior rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flecks manteless. Three savage-looking dogs laid at their feet. The eight rowers in the pro seemed to be servants or slaves of the sheaf. They rowed vigorously and propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the vaikato, whose extraordinary velocity. In the centre of this long canoe, with their feet tied together, set ten European prisoners closely packed together. It was Glenavarn and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel, the Major, John Mangles, the Steward and two sailors. The night before the little band had unwittingly owing to the mist encampment in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the middle of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners and carried on both the canoe. They had not been ill-treated so far, on all attempts at resistance had been weighing. Their arms and ammunition were in the hands of the senages, and they would soon have been targets for their own balls. They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives, that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten and decimated by the English troops and were on their way back to the upper vaikato. The Maori chief, whose principal Roryas had been picked off by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final appeal to the tribes of the vaikato district, so that he might go to the aid of the Indomie table William Thompson, who was still holding his own against the conquerors. The chief's name was Kaikumu, a name of evil budding in the native language, meaning he who eats the limbs of his enemies. He was bold and brave, but his corality was equally remarkable. No pity was to be expected at his hands. His name was well known to the English soldiers and a price had been set on his head by the governor of New Zealand. This terrible blow befell Glenn Arvin at the very moment when he was about to reach the long desired haven of Auckland, and so regaining his own country. But no one who looked at his cool, calm features could have guessed the anguish he endured. Glenn Arvin always rose to his misfortunes. He felt that his part was to be the strength and the example of his wife and companions. That he was the head and chief ready to die for the rest if circumstances required it. He was of a deeply religious turn of mind and never lost his trust in providence nor his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise. In the midst of this croning peril he did not give way to any feeling of regret at having been in use to venture into this country of sandwiches. His companions were worthy of him. They entered into his lofty views and judging by their hearty demeanor it would scarcely have been supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With Ronnick Hart and by Glenn Ravens advice they resolved to effect utter indifferences before the natives. It was the only way to impress these ferocious natures. Savages in general and particularly Amaris have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect above all things coolness and courage. Glenn Arvin was aware that by this mode of procedure he and his companions would spare themselves needless humiliation. From the moment of embarking the natives who were very ticky-turned like all savages had scarcely exchanged a word but from the few sentence they did utter Glenn Arvin felt certain that the English language was familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kaikumu he said in a perfectly unconcerned voice, where are we going chief? Kaikumu looked coolly at him and made no answer. What are you going to do with us? pursued Glenn Arvin. A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kaikumu and he said in a deep voice, exchange you if your own people care to have you eat you if they don't. Glenn Arvin asked no further questions but hope revived in his heart. He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of the English and that the natives were tried to get them exchanged so they had a chance of salvation and the case was not quite so desperate. The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel whose excitable temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other had quite regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts and that was so much gain so he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the curse of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province. Lady Helena and Mary Grant concealing their alarm conversed in a low voice with Glenn Arvin and the knees to feel the agonomist would have failed to see any angsty in their faces. The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to the Maori's what the rhymes to the Germans and the Duneb to the slaves. In its course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Islands from the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its name to all those indomitable tribes of the river district which rose en masse against the invaders. The water of this river are still almost strangers to any craft but the native can you. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture to invade this sacred shores. In fact the upper Waikato is sealed against profan Europeans. Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives regard this great arterial steam. He knew that the English and German naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the Viper. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kaikumu would carry his captives. He could not have guessed but for hearing the word Taupo repeatedly uttered between the sheaf and his warriors. He consulted his map and saw that Taupo was the name of a lake celebrated in geographical annals and lying in the most mountainous part of the island at the southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles. End of book three Chapter nine Recording by Dirk Weber-Reinberg Book three, Chapter ten of In Search of the Castaways This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. In Search of the Castaways or the Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne. Book three, Chapter ten A Momentous Interview An unfathomable gulf 25 miles long and 20 miles broad was produced, but long before historic times, by the falling in of caverns among the trachitic lavas of the centre of the island, and these waters falling from the surrounding heights have taken possession of this vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is also an abyss, and no lead line has yet sounded its depth. Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1250 feet above the level of the sea, and in view of an amphitheatre of mountains 2400 feet high. On the west are rocky peaks of great size. On the north, lofty summits, clothed with low trees. On the east, a broad beach with a road-track, and covered with pumice stones which shimmer through the leafy screen of the bushes. On the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest flat. Such is the majestic frame that encloses this vast sheet of water whose roaring tempests rival the cyclones of ocean. The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over subterranean fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central furnace. Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked. About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the mountain, stood a paw, or mayory fortress. The prisoners whose feet and hands were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the warriors. The path which led up to the entrenchment lay across the fields of forium, and a grove of beautiful trees, the cacti's, with persistent leaves and red berries, dracinas australis, and the tea-trees of the natives whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the cabbage palm, and hyous, which are used to give a black dye to cloth. Large doves with metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world of starlings with reddish carmels, flew away at the approach of the natives. After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvon and his party arrived at the paw. The fortress was defended by an outer enclosure of strong palisades, fifteen feet high, a second line of stakes, then a fence composed of ossears with loopholes enclosed the inner space, that is, the plateau of the paw, on which were erected the mayory buildings, and about forty huts arranged symmetrically. When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the sight of the heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena and Mary Grant turned away their eyes, more with disgust than with terror. These heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized that it was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of eyeballs. Glenarvon and his companions had taken in all this scene at a glance. They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief, and exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some English words that escaped their coarse mouth left no doubt that they were clamoring for immediate vengeance. In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena, tranquil to all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from feeling. This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest she should disturb Glenarvon's coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink within her, and John Mangles stood by, ready to die in her behalf. His companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to his disposition. The major, with utter indifference, pagonel with exasperation that increased every moment. Glenarvon to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these witches walked straight up to Kai Kamal, and pointed to the hideous group. Send them away, said he. The Mayor-Eachief stared fixedly at his prisoner without speaking, and then with a nod he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvon bowed as a sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place. At this moment a hundred Maori's were assembled in the pa, old men, full-grown men, youths, the former were calm but gloomy, awaiting the orders of Kai Kamal. The others gave themselves up to the most violent sorrow bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the late engagements. Kai Kamal was the only one of the chiefs that obeyed the call of William Thompson, who had returned to the Lake District, and he was the first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national insurrection, beaten on the plains of the lower Wakato. Of the two hundred warriors, who under his orders hastened to the defence of the soil, one hundred and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of battle never to return to the country of their ancestors. This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the tribe saluted the arrival of Kai Kamal. Up to that moment nothing had been known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunderclap. Among the savages sorrow is always manifested by physical signs. The parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially, lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood spurred it out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great despair. The unhappy Maori's bleeding and excited were hideous to look upon. There was another serious element in their grief. Not only had they lost the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be missing in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of these relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future life. Not the perishable flesh, but the bones which are collected with the greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then deposited in the udupa, that is, the house of glory. These tombs are adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness the tattoo of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty. The religious rites would be unsolomised, and the bones that escaped the teeth of the wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of battle. Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the women were intensified by the implications of the men against the Europeans. Abuse of epitaphs were lavished. The accompanying gestures became more violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action. Kai Kumo, fearing that he might be overpowered by the fanatics of his tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place on an abruptly raised plateau at the other end of the pa. This hut, rested against a mound, elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep outer buttress of the entrenchment. In this, where atua, sacred house, the priests or arikis, taught the mayoris about a triune god, father, son, and bird or spirit, the large, well-constructed hut contained the sacred and choice food which Maui Ranga Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests. In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied natives, the captives laid down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite exhausted, her moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her husband's arms. Glenarvin pressed her to his bosom and said, Courage, my dear Helena, heaven will not forsake us. Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson's shoulders and squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could see the whole extent of the pa, and as far as Kaikumo's house. They are all crowding around the chief, he said softly. They are throwing their arms about. They are howling. Kaikumo is trying to speak. Then he was silent for a few minutes. Kaikumo was speaking. The savages are quieter. They are listening. Evidently, said the major, this chief has a personal interest in protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some chief of his tribe. But will his warriors consent? Yes, they are listening. They have disappeared. Some have gone into their huts. The others have left the entrenchment. Are you sure? said the major. Yes, Mr. McNabs, replied Robert. Kaikumo is left alone with the warriors of his canoe. Oh, one of them is coming up here. Come down, Robert, said Glenarvin. At this moment Lady Helena, who had risen, seized her husband's arm. Edward, she said, in a resolute tone, neither Mary Grant nor I must fall into the hands of these savages alive. And so saying, she handed Glenarvin a loaded revolver. Firearm! exclaimed Glenarvin with flashing eyes. Yes, the majories do not search their prisoners, but Edward, this is for us, not for them. Glenarvin slipped the revolver under his coat. At the same moment the mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered. He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvin and the rest walked across the pah and stopped before Kaikumo. He was surrounded by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Mayori whose canoe joined that of the Kaikumo at the confluence of Pujain-Hena on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built, and of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kerotet, meaning the irascible, in the native tongue. Kaikumo treated him with a certain tone of respect, and by the fineness of his tattoo it was easy to perceive that Kerotet held a lofty position in the tribe. But a keen observer would have guessed the feeling of rivalry that existed between these two chiefs. The Major observed that the influence of Kerotet gave umbrage to Kaikumo. They both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were equal in authority. During this interview Kaikumo smiled, but his eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity. Kaikumo interrogated Glenarvin. You are English, he said. Yes, replied Glenarvin, unhesitatingly, as his nationality would facilitate the exchange. And your companions, said Kaikumo. My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked travellers, but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in the war. That matters little, was the brutal answer of Kerotet. Every Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island. They robbed our field. They burned our villages. They were wrong, said Glenarvin quietly. I say so because I think it, not because I am in your power. Listen, said Kaikumo, that Ohanga, the chief priest of the Nui Atua, has fallen into the hands of your brethren. He is a prisoner among the Pachakas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own part I would rather have torn out your heart. I would have stuck your head, and those of your companions, on the posts of that palosade. But Nui Atua has spoken. As he uttered these words, Kaikumo, who till now had been quite unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense ferocity. Then, after a few minutes' interval, he proceeded more calmly. Do you think the English will exchange you for our Tahanga? Glenarvin hesitated, all the while watching the Mayori chief. I do not know, said he, after a moment of silence. Speak, returned Kaikumo. Is your life worth that of our Tahanga? No, replied Glenarvin. I am neither a chief nor a priest among my own people. Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvin in amazement. Kaikumo appeared equally astonished. You doubt it, then? said he. I do not know, replied Glenarvin. Your people will not accept you as an exchange for Tahanga? Me alone? No, repeated Glenarvin. All of us perhaps they might. Our Mayori custom, replied Kaikumo, is head for head. Offer first these ladies an exchange for your priest, said Glenarvin, pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant. Lady Helena was about to interrupt him, but the major held her back. These two ladies, continued Glenarvin, bowing respectfully toward Lady Helena and Mary Grant, are personages of rank in their own country. The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner, an evil smile relaxed his lips for a moment, then he controlled himself and in a voice of ill-concealed anger. Do you hope to deceive Kaikumo with your lying words? A cursed pachaka? Can not the eyes of Kaikumo read hearts? And pointing to Lady Helena, that is your wife, he said. No, mine! exclaimed Keratet. And then, pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on the shoulder of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch. Edward cried the unfortunate woman in terror. Glenarvin, without a word, raised his arm, a shot, and Keratet fell at his feet. The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred arms were ready, and Glenarvin's revolver was snatched from him. Kaikumo glanced at Glenarvin with a curious expression, then with one hand protecting Glenarvin, and with the other he waved off the crowd, who were rushing on to the party. At last his voice was heard above the tumult. Taboo! taboo! he shouted. At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvin and his companions, who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence. A few minutes after they were reconducted to wear a chuwa, which was their prison, but Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them. End of Book 3, Chapter 10 Kaikamu, as frequently happens among the Mayoris, joined the title of a reeky to that of tribal chief. He was invested with the dignity of priests, and as such he had the power to throw over persons or things to the superstitious protection of the taboo. The taboo, which is common to all Polynesian races, has the primary effect of isolating the tabooed person and preventing the use of tabooed things. According to the male right doctrine, anyone who laid sacrilegious hands on what had been declared taboo would be punished with death by the insult of deity, and even if the God delayed the vindication of his power, the priests took care to accelerate his vengeance. By the chiefs the taboo was made a political engine, except in some cases for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is tabooed for several days when his hair is cut, when he is tattooed, when he is building a canoe or a house, when he is seriously ill, and when he is dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a river, or ruin the early crops of sweet potatoes, these things are put under the protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house of hangers on, he taboos it. If an English trader displeases him, he is tabooed. His interdict has the effect of the old royal veto. If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity. When a native is under the interdict, certain elements are denied him for a prescribed period. If he is relieved as regards to the severe diet, his slaves feed him with the viens he has forbidden to touch with his hands. If he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his mouth, like an animal. In short, the most trifling acts of the Mayoris are directed and modified by this singular custom. The deity is brought into constant contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law, or rather the code of the Mayoris. Indisputable and undisputed is comprised in the frequent applications of the taboo. As to the prisoners confined in the Wa'ariatua, it was an arbitrary taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the natives, friends and partisans of Kaika'amu, desisted at once on hearing the chief's voice, and protected the captives from the rest. Glenarvon cherished nobleness of hopes as to his own fate. Nothing but his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these people death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture. Glenarvon, therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous indignation that nerved his arm. But he hoped that the wrath of Kaika'amu would not extend beyond himself. What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture their agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been restored to them. But their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabs, who was always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangalies was nearly frantic at the sight of Mary Grant's despair at being separated from her brother. Glenarvon pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who preferred dying by his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How was he to summon the terrible courage? And Mary, who has a right to strike her dead, thought John, whose heart was broken. Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors armed to the teeth kept watching the door of the Wa'aryatua. The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had taken place between the natives and the tabooed prisoners. A limited supply of provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely touched. Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change and without hope. The funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless be the signal for their execution. Although Glenarvon did not conceal from himself the probability that Ka'i Ka'amu had given up all ideal of exchange, the major still cherished a spark of hope. Who knows, said he, as he reminded Glenarvon of the effect produced on the chief by the death of Giriditi. Who knows, but that Ka'i Ka'amu in his heart is very much obliged to you. But even McNabb's remarks failed to awaken hope in Glenarvon's mind. The next day passed without any appearance of preparation for their punishment. And this was the reason for the delay. The Mayoris believed that for three days after death, the soul inhabits the body. And therefore, for three times 24 hours, the corpse remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. To February 15th, the pa was deserted. John Mangalys hoisted on Wilson's shoulders, frequently reconnoitered the outer defenses. That a single native was visible, only to watchful sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Wa'aria Tua. But on the third day the hut's opened, all the savages, men, women, and children, in all seven hundred Mayoris, assembled in the pa, silent and calm. Ka'i Ka'amu came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs of his tribe, he took a stand and amound some feet above the level, in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half circle some distance off, in dead silence. At a sign from Ka'i Ka'amu, a warrior bent his steps toward Wa'aria Tua. Remember, said Lady Helen Atura's husband? Glenarvin pressed her to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangalys, and said hurriedly, Lord and Lady Glenarvin cannot but think if a wife may claim death at her husband's hands, to escape a shameful life. A betrothed wife may claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband to escape the same fate. John, at this last moment, I ask you, have we not long been betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady Helen relies on Lord Glenarvin? Mary, cried the young captain in his despair. Ah, dear Mary! The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Ka'i Ka'amu. The two women were resigned to their fate. The men dissembled their sufferings with superhuman effort. They arrived in the presence of the male-right chief. You killed Keretiti, said he to Glenarvin. I did, answered Glenarvin. You die tomorrow at sunrise. Alone, asked Glenarvin with a beating heart. Oh, if our Tuhanga's life was not more precious than yours, exclaimed Ka'i Ka'amu with a ferocious expression of regret. At this moment there was commotion among the natives. Glenarvin looked quickly around. The crowd made way, and a warrior appeared, heated by running and sinking with fatigue. Ka'i Ka'amu, as soon as he saw him, said in English, evidently for the benefit of the captives, you come from the camp of the Pakikas. Yes, answered the male-right. You have seen the prisoner, Artuhanga? I have seen him. Alive? Dead. English have shot him. It was all over with Glenarvin and his companions. All cried Ka'i Ka'amu. You all die tomorrow at daybreak. Punishment fell out all indiscriminately. Lady Helena and Marie Grant were grateful to heaven for the boon. The captives were not taken back to Aria Tua. They were destined to attend the obsequie of the chief and the bloody rights that accompanied them. A guard of natives conducted them to the foot of an immense Ka'ori, and then stood on guard without taking their eyes off the prisoners. The three prescribed days had elapsed since the death of Karatiti, and the soul of the dead warrior had finally departed, so the ceremonies commenced. The body was laid on a small mound in the central enclosure. It was clothed in a rich dress and wrapped in a magnificent flax mat. His head adorned with feathers was encircled with a crown of green leaves. His face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil and did not show any sign of decay. The parents and friends arrived at the foot of the mound, and at a certain moment, as if the leader of an orchestra were leading a funeral chant, there was a great well of tears, sighs, and sobs. They lamented the deceased with plenty of rhythm and a doleful cadence. The kinsmen beat their heads. The kinswomen tore their faces with their nails and lavished more blood than tears. But these demonstrations were not sufficient to propitiate the soul of the deceased, whose wrath might strike the survivors of his tribe, and his warriors, as they could not recall him to life, were anxious that he should have nothing to wish for in the other world. The wife of Karatiti was not to be parted from him. Indeed, she would have refused to survive him. It was a custom as well as a duty, and Mayol Rai history has no lack of such sacrifices. This woman came on the scene. She was still young. Her disheveled hair flowed over her shoulders. Her sobs and cries filled the air. Incoherent words, regrets, sobs, broken phrases in which she extolled the virtues of the dead, alternated with her moans. And in a crowning paroxysm of sorrow, she threw herself at the foot of the mound and beat her head on the earth. The kaikaamu drew near. Suddenly the wretched victim rose, but a violent blow from Amiri, a kind of club brandished by the chief, struck her to the ground. She fell senseless. Horrible yells followed. A hundred arms threatened the terror-stricken captives, but no one moved, for the funeral ceremonies were not yet over. The wife of Karatiti had joined her husband. The two bodies laid stretched side by side. But in the future life, even the presence of his faithful companion was not enough. Who would attend on them in the realm of Nui'a to Ua, if their slaves did not follow them into the other world? Six unfortunate fellows were brought to the mound. They were attendants whom the pitiless usages of war had reduced to slavery. During the chief's lifetime they had borne the severest privations and been subjected to all kinds of ill usage. They had been scantily fed and incessantly occupied like beasts of burden, and now, according to Mayurai ideals, they were to resume to all eternity this life of bondage. These poor creatures appeared quite resigned to their destiny. They were not taken by surprise. Their unbound hands showed that they met their fate without resistance. Their death was speedy and not aggravated by tedious suffering. Torture was reserved for the authors of the murder, who, only twenty paces off, averted their eyes from the horrible scene which was to grow yet more horrible. Six blows of the myri, delivered by hands of six powerful warriors, felled the victims in the midst of a sea of blood. This was the signal for a fearful scene of cannibalism. The bodies of slaves are not protected by taboo like those of their masters. They belong to the tribe. They were sort of small chains thrown among the mourners, and the moment of sacrifice was over. The whole crowd, chief's warriors, old men, women, children, without distinction of age or sex, fell upon the census remains with brutal appetite. Faster than a rapid pen could describe it, the bodies still ricking were dismembered, divided, caught up, not into morsels, but into crumbs. Of the two hundred Mayurais present, everyone obtained a share. They fought, they struggled, they quarreled over the smallest fragment. The drops of hot blood splashed over these festive monsters, and the whole of the detestable crew groveled under a rain of blood. It was like the delirious fury of tigers fighting over their prey, or like a circus, where the wild beasts devoured the deer. This scene ended. A score of fires were lit at various points in the pot. The smell of charred flesh polluted the air, and but for the fearful tumult of the festival, but for the cries that emanated from these flesh-sated throats. The captives might have heard the bones crunching under the teeth of the cannibals. Glenarvin and his companions, breathless with horror, tried to conceal this fearful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They understood then what fate awaited them next day at dawn, and also with what cruel torture this death would be preceded. They were dumb with horror. The funeral dances commenced. Strong liquors distilled from the Piper Excelsior animated the intoxication of the natives. They had nothing human left. It seemed possible that its taboo might be forgotten, and they might rush upon the prisoners who were already terrified at their delirious gestures. But Kaika Amu kept his own senses amidst the general delirium. He allowed an hour for this orgy of blood to attain its maximum and then cease. And the final scene of the obsequies was performed with the accustomed ceremonial. The corpses of Karatiti and his wife were raised. The limbs were bent and laid against the stomach according to the Miori usage. Then came the funeral, not the final interment, but a burial until the moment when the earth had destroyed the flesh and nothing remained but the skeleton. The place of Udu'upa, or the tomb, had been chosen outside the fortress, about two miles off at the top of a hill called Ma Uga Namu situated on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot the body was to be taken. Two Palakin, of a very primitive kind, hand-barrels in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the corpses doubled up so that they were sitting rather than lying, and their garments kept in place by a band of hains which were placed on them. Four warriors took up the litters on their shoulders, and the whole tribe, repeating their funeral chant, followed in procession to the place of Sepulcher. The captives, still strictly guarded, saw the funeral courtier leave the inner enclosure of the Pa than the chants and cries grew fainter. For about half an hour, the funeral procession remained out of sight in the Hollow Valley, and then came inside again, winding up the mountain side. The distance gave a fantastic effect to the undulating movement of this long serpentine column. The tribe stopped at an elevation of about 800 feet on the summit of Ma Uga Namu, where the burial place of Karatiti had been prepared. An ordinary mayor-eye would have had nothing but a hole and a heap of earth, but a powerful and formidable chief destined to speedy deification was honored with a tomb worthy of his exploits. The Udaupa had been fenced round, and posts surmounted with faces painted in red oak stood near the grave where the bodies were to lie. The relatives had not forgotten that the Wai de Ua, the spirit of the dead, lives on mortal food, as the body did in this life. Therefore, food was deposited in the enclosure as well as the arms and clothing of the deceased. Nothing was admitted for comfort. The husband and wife were laid side by side, then covered with earth and grass, after another series of laments. Then the procession wound slowly down the mountain, and henceforth Dundara sent the slope of Ma Uga Namu on pain of death, for it was tabooed, like Tanga Arairo, where lie the ashes of a chief killed by an earthquake in 1846. End of Book 3, Chapter 6, Recording by Michael Anthony Petronic Book 3, Chapter 12 of In Search of the Castaways This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org In Search of the Castaways or The Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne Book 3, Chapter 12, Strangely Liberated Just as the sun was sinking behind Lake Tapu, behind the peaks of Tuahua and Pakapapu, the captives were conducted back to the prison. They were not to leave it again till the tops of the Wahidi ranges were lit for the first fires of day. They had one night in which to prepare for death. Overcome as they were with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together. We shall need our strength, Glenarbon had said, to look death in the face. We must show these savages how Europeans can die. The meal ended. Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud. Her companions, bare-headed, repeated it after her. Who does not turn his thoughts toward God in the hour of death? This done, the prisoners embraced each other. Mary Grant and Helena, in a corner of the hut, lay down on a mat. Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weigh down their eyelids. They slept in each other's arms, overcome by exhaustion and prolonged watching. Then Glenarbon, taken his friends aside, said, My dear friends, our lives and the lives of these poor women are in God's hands. If it is decreed that we die tomorrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men, ready to appear without terror before the supreme judge. God, who reads our hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view. If death awaits us instead of success, it is his will. Stern, as a decree may seem, I will not repine. But death here means not death only. It means torture, insult perhaps, and here are two ladies. Glenarbon's voice, firm till now, faltered. He was silent a moment, and having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young captain, John, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena. What is your plan? I believe, said John, that in the sight of God, I have a right to fulfill that promise. Yes, John, but we are unarmed. No, replied John, showing him a dagger. I snatched it from Cara to Tay when he fell at your feet. My lord, whichever of us survives, the other will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant. After these words were said, a profound silence ensued. At last, the major said, my friends, keep that to the last moment. I am not an advocate of irremediable measures. I did not speak for ourselves, said Glenarbon. Be it as it may, we can face death. Had we been alone, I should ere now have cried. My friends, let us make an effort, let us attack these wretches. But with these poor girls, at this moment John raised the mat and counted 25 natives keeping guard on the Waretua. A great fire had been lighted and its lurid glow threw into strong relief the irregular outlines of the paw. Some of the savages were sitting round the brazier, the others standing motionless. Their black outlines relieved against the clear background of flame, but they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their care. It has been said that between a vigilant jailer and a prisoner who wishes to escape, the chances are in favor of the prisoner. The fact is, the interest of one is keener than that of the other. The jailer may forget that he is on guard, the prisoner never forgets that he is guarded, the captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer of preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful escapes. But in the present instance, hatred and revenge were the jailers, not in indifferent order. The prisoners were not bound, but it was because bonds were useless when five and twenty-five men were watching the only egrets from the Waretua. This house, with its back to the rock which closed the fortress, was only accessible by a long narrow promontory which joined it in front to the plateau in which the paw was erected. And its two other sides rose pointed rocks which jutted out over an abyss a hundred feet deep. On that side, the scent was impossible, and had it been possible, bottom was shut in by the enormous rock. The only outlet was the regular door of the Waretua, and the maories guarded the promontory which united it to the paw like a drawbridge. All escape was thus hopeless, and Glenarvon, having tried the walls for the twentieth time, was compelled to acknowledge that it was so. The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped away. Thick darkness had settled on the mountain. Neither moon nor stars pierced the gloom. Some gust of wind whistled by the sides of the paw in the post of the house creaked. The fire outside revived with the puffs of wind, and the flames sent fitful gleams into the interior of the Waretua. The group of prisoners was lit up for a moment. They were absorbed in their last thoughts, and a deathlike silence reigned in the hut. It might have been about four o'clock in the morning when the major's attention was called to a slight noise which seemed to come from the foundation of the post and the wall of the hut which abutted the rock. McNabs was at first indifferent, but finding the noise continued. He listened. Then his curiosity was aroused, and he put his ear to the ground. It sounded as if someone was scraping or hollowing out the ground outside. As soon as he was sure of it, he crept over to Glenarvon and John Mangles, and startling them from the melancholy thoughts led them to the end of the hut. Listen, said he, motioning them to stoop. The scratching became more and more audible. They could hear the little stones grate on a hard body and roll away. Some animal in his burl, said John Mangles. Glenarvon struck his forehead. Who knows, said he, it might be a man. Animal or man, answered the major, I will soon find out. Wilson and Obanette joined their companions and all united to dig through the wall. John with his dagger, the others with stones taken from the ground, or with their nails, while Moratti stretched along the ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting. Those savages sitting motionless around the fire suspected nothing of what was going on 20 feet off. The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of salacious tufa, therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened quickly. It soon became evident that a man or man clinging to the sides of the pot were cutting a passage into its exterior wall. What could be the object? Did they know of the existence of the prisoners, or was it some private enterprise that led to the undertaking? The prisoners redoubled their efforts, their fingers bled, but still they worked on. After a half an hour they had gone three feet deep. They perceived by the increased sharpness of the sounds that only a thin layer of earth prevented immediate communication. Some minutes more passed, and the major withdrew his hand from the stroke of a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry. John Mangles, inserting the blade of his poignard, avoided the knife which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that wielded it. It was the hand of a woman or child, a European. On neither side had a word been uttered. It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent. It said, Robert, whispered Glinarvan. But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already awakened by the sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glinarvan and, seizing the hand, all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses. My darling Robert, said she, never doubting, it is you, it is you. Yes, little sister, said he, it is I am here to save you all, but be very silent. Brave lad, repeated Glinarvan, watch the savages outside, said Robert. Moratti, whose attention was distracted for a moment by the appearance of the boy, resumed his post. It is all right, said he, there are only four awake, the rest are asleep. A minute after the hole was enlarged, and Robert passed from the arms of his sister to those of Lady Helena. Round his body was rolled a long coil of flax rope. My child, my child, murmured Lady Helena, the savages did not kill you. No, madam, said he, I do not know how it happened, but in the scuffle I got away. I jumped the barrier. For two days I hid in the bushes to try and see you. While a tribe were busy with the chief funeral, I came and reconnoitered this side of the path. I saw that I could get to you. I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut. The tufts of bush and the branches made me a ladder, but I found a kind of grotto already hollowed out in the rock under this hut. I had only to bore some feet in the soft earth, and here I am. Twenty noiseless kisses were his reward. Let us be off, said he in a decided tone. Is Paganel below? asked Glynarvin. Monsur Paganel replied the boy amazed. Uh, yes, is he waiting for us? No, my lord, but is he not here? inquired Robert. No, Robert answered Mary Grand. Why, have you not seen him? asked Glynarvin. Did you lose each other in the confusion? Did you not get away together? No, my lord, said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance of his friend Paganel. We'll lose no more times, said the major, wherever Paganel is, he cannot be in worse plight than ourselves. Let us go. Truly the moments were precious. They had to fly. The escape was not very difficult, except 20 feet of perpendicular fall outside the grotto. After that, the slope was practicable to the foot of the mountain. From this point, the prisoners could soon gain the lower valleys, while the mayores, if they perceived the flight of the prisoners, would have to make a long round to catch them, being unaware of the gallery between the whereotua and the outer rock. The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken. The captive passed one by one through the narrow passage into the grotto, and John Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidence of their work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it the mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite concealed. The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope below, and this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought the flax rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of rock, the end hanging over. John Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this flax rope, tried it. He did not think it very strong, and it was of importance not to risk themselves imprudently as a fall would be fatal. This rope, said he, will only bear the weight of two persons. Therefore, let us go in rotation. Lord and Lady Glenarvin first, when they arrive at the bottom, three poles at the rope will be a signal to us to follow. I will go first, said Robert. I discovered a deep hollow at the foot of the slope, where those who come down can conceal themselves and wait for the rest. Go, my boy, said Glenarvin, pressing Robert's hand. Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto. A minute later, the three poles at the cord informed them the boy had lighted safely. Glenarvin and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the grotto. The darkness was still very great, though some grayish streaks were already visible on the eastern summits. The biting cold of morning revived a poor young lady. She felt stronger and commenced her perilous descent. Glenarvin first, then Lady Helena let themselves down along the rope, till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the top of the slope. Then Glenarvin, going first and supporting his wife, began to descend backward. He felt for the tufts and grass and shrubs able to afford a foothold, tried them, and then placed Lady Helena's foot on them. Some birds, suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives trembled when a stone loosened from his bed rolled to the foot of the mountain. They had reached halfway down the slope when a voice was heard from the opening of the grotto. Stop! whispered John Mangles. Glenarvin, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia, with the other holding his wife, waded with breathless anxiety. Wilson had had an alarm. Having heard some unusual noise outside the wearer tour, he went back to the hut and watched the maories from behind the mat. At a sign from him, John stopped Glenarvin. One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound, rose and drew nearer to the wearer tour. He stood still for about two paces from the hut and listened with his head bent forward. He remained in that attitude for a minute that seemed an hour, his ear and tent, his eye peering into the darkness. Then, shaking his head like one who sees he is mistaken, he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood, and threw it into the smoldering fire, which immediately revived. His face was lighted up by the flame and was free from any look of doubt, and after having glanced to wear the first light of dawn white in the eastern sky, stretched himself near the fire to warm his stiffened limb. All's well, whispered Wilson. John signaled to Glenarvin to resume his descent. Glenarvin let himself gently down the slope. Soon, Lady Helena and he landed on the narrow track where Robert waited for them. The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn, John Mangles, preceding Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route. He arrived safely, rejoined Lord and Lady Glenarvin and the hollow mentioned by Robert. Five minutes after, all the fugitives had safely escaped from the wearer tool, left their retreat, and keeping away from the inhabited shores of the lakes, they plunged by narrow paths into the recesses of the mountains. They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they might be seen from the paw. They were quite silent and glided among the bushes like shadows. Whither? Were chance led them, but at any rate they were free. Toward five o'clock, the day began to dawn. Blueish clouds marveled the upper stratum of clouds. The misty summits began to pierce the morning mist. The orb of day was soon to appear, and instead of giving them the signal for their execution, would on the contrary announce their flight. It was of vital importance that before the decisive moment arrived, they should put themselves beyond the reach of the savages so as to put them off their track. But their progress was slow, for the paths were steep. Lady Glenarvin climbed the slopes, supported, not to say carried, by Glenarvin, and Mary Grant leaned on the arm of John Mangels. Robert, radiant with joy, triumphant at his success, led the march, and the two sailors brought up the rear. Another half an hour, and the glorious sun would rise out of the midst of the horizon. For half an hour the fugitives walked on as chance led them. Paganel was not there to take lead. He was now the object of their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and their happiness. But they bore steadily eastward, as much as possible, and faced the gorgeous morning luck. Soon they had reached a height of five hundred feet above Lake Dupont, and the cold of the morning increased by the altitude was very keen. Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind one another, but Glenarvin only thought how best to get lost among them, time enough by and by to see about escaping from the labyrinth. At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their path. Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats went the air. It came from the paw, whose direction Glenarvin did not know. Besides, a thick veil of fog, which spread out his feet, prevented any distinct view of the valleys below. But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered, and now the question was, would they be able to allude pursuit? Had they been seen, would not their track betray them? And at this moment the fog in the valley lifted and enveloped them for a moment in a damp mist, and at three hundred feet below they perceived a swarming mass of frantic natives. While they looked, they were seen. Renewed howls broke forth, mingled with the barking of dogs and the whole tribe after vainly trying to scale the rock of where a tour rushed out of the paw, and hastened by the shortest path in pursuit of the prisoners who were flying from their vengeance. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The summit of the mountain was still a hundred feet above them. The fugitives were anxious to reach it, that they might continue their flight on the eastern slope, out of the view of their pursuers. They hoped then to find some practicable ridge that would allow of a passage to the neighbouring peaks that were thrown together in an aural graphic maze, to which poor Paganels, genius, would doubtless have found the clue. They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries that drew nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot of the mountain. Courage, my friends, cried Glen Arvin, urging his companions by voice and look. In less than five minutes they were at the top of the mountain, and then they turned to judge of their position and decide on a route that would baffle their pursuers. From their elevated position they could see Overlake Torpo, which stretched toward the west, in its setting of picturesque mountains. On the north the peaks of Pirongja. On the south the burning crater of Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and ridges that formed the Wahiti ranges. The Great Chain, whose unbroken links stretch from the east cape to cook straits. They had no alternative but to descend the opposite slope and enter the narrow gorges, uncertain whether any outlet existed. Glen Arvin could not prolong the halt for a moment, weird as they might be. They must fly or be discovered. Let us go down, he cried, before our passage is cut off. But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort, McNabs stopped them and said, Glen Arvin it is useless, look! And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had taken place in the movements of the Maoris. Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The Ascent of the Mountain had ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their career and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the crowd, thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain, yelling and gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing afoot. Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage. What stayed them? What occult power controlled their savages? The fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm that enchained K. Komu's tribe should be broken. Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted the attention of his companions. He pointed to a little enclosure on the summit of the Cone. The Tomb of Carrot Tete, said Robert. Are you sure, Robert? said Glen Arvin. Yes, my lord, it is the tomb. I recognise it. Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of the mountain, freshly painted posts formed a small palisaded enclosure, and Glen Arvin, too, was convinced that it was the chief's burial place. The chances of their flight had led them to the crest of Manganamu. Glen Arvin, followed by the rest, climbed to the foot of the tomb. A large opening covered with mats led into it. Glen Arvin was about to invade the sanctity of Udupa when he reeled backward. A savage, said he. In the tomb, inquired the Major. Yes, McNabs. No matter. Go in. Glen Arvin, the Major, Robert, and John Mangles entered. There sat a Maori, wrapped in a large flax mat, the darkness of the Udupa, preventing them from distinguishing his features. He was very quiet, and was eating his breakfast quite coolly. Glen Arvin was about to speak to him when the native fullstalled him by saying gaily and in good English. Sit down, my lord. Breakfast is ready. It was Paganel. At the sound of his voice, they all rushed into the Udupa. And he was cordially embraced by all. Paganel was found again. He was their salvation. They wanted to question him. To know how and why he was here on the summit of Manganamu. But Glen Arvin stopped this misplaced curiosity. The savages, said he. The savages, said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. I have a contempt for those people. Come and look at them. They all followed Paganel out of the Udupa. The Māoris were still in the same position round the base of the mountain, uttering fearful cries. Shout, yell, till your lungs are gone, stupid wretches, said Paganel. I dare you to come here. But why, said Glen Arvin? Because the chief is buried here, and the tomb protects us. Because the mountain is tabooed. Tabooed? Yes, my friends, and that is why I took refuge here, as the malefactors used to flee to the sanctuaries in the Middle Ages. God be praised, said Lady Helena, lifting her hands to heaven. The fugitives were not yet out of danger, but they had a moment's respite, which was very welcome in their exhausted state. Glen Arvin was too much overcome to speak, and the major nodded his head with an air of perfect content. And now, my friends, said Paganel, if these brutes think to exercise their patience on us, they are mistaken. In two days we shall be out of their reach. By flight, said Glen Arvin. But how? That I do not know, answered Paganel. But we shall manage it. And now everybody wanted to know about their friends' adventures. They were puzzled by the reserve of a man generally so talkative. On this occasion they had to drag the words out of his mouth. Usually he was a ready storyteller. Now he gave only evasive answers to the questions of the rest. Paganel is another man, thought McNabs. His face was really altered. He wrapped himself closely in his great flax-mat, and seemed to deprecate observation. Everyone noticed his embarrassment. When he was the subject of conversation, though nobody appeared to remark it, when other topics were under discussion, Paganel resumed his usual gaiety. Of his adventures all that could be extracted from him at this time was as follows. After the murder of Karatiti, Paganel took advantage, like Robert, of the commotion among the natives, and got out of the enclosure. But less fortunate than young Grant, he walked straight into a Māori camp, where he met a tall, intelligent-looking chief, evidently of higher rank than all the warriors of his tribe. The chief spoke excellent English, and he saluted the newcomer by rubbing the end of his nose against the end of the geographer's nose. Paganel wondered whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not. But perceiving that he could not stir without the polite escort of the chief, he soon made up his mind on that point. This chief, hihi, or sunbeam, was not a bad fellow. Paganel's spectacles and telescope seemed to give him a great idea of Paganel's importance, and he manifested great attachment to him, not only by kindness, but by a strong, flax-rope, especially at night. This lasted for three days. To the inquiry whether he was well treated, he said, yes and no, without further answer. He was a prisoner, and except that he expected immediate execution, his state seemed to him no better than that in which he had left his unfortunate friends. One night, however, he managed to break his rope and escape. He had seen from afar the burial of the chief, and knew that he was buried on the top of Manganamu, and he was well acquainted with the fact that the mountain would therefore be tabooed. He resolved to take refuge there, being unwilling to leave the region, where his companions were in dueance. He succeeded in his dangerous attempt, and had arrived the previous night at the tomb of Karateti, and there proposed to recruit his strength while he waited in the hope that his friends might, by divine mercy, find the means of escape. Such was Paganel's story. Did he designally conceal some incident of his captivity? More than once, his embarrassment led them to that conclusion. But, however that might be, he was heartily congratulated on all sides. And then the present emergency came on for serious discussion. The natives dare not climb Manganamu, but they, of course, calculated that hunger and thirst would restore them their prey. It was only a question of time and patience. Is one of the virtues of all savages. Glenarvon was fully alive to the difficulty, but made up his mind to watch for an opportunity, or make one. First of all, he made a thorough survey of Manganamu, their present fortress, not for the purpose of defence, but of escape. The Major, John, Robert, Paganel and himself made an exact map of the mountain. They noted the direction, outlet and inclination of the paths, the ridge, a miling length, which united Manganamu to the Wahiti chain had a downward inclination. Its slope, narrow and jagged though it was, appeared the only practicable route. If they made good their escape at all. If they could do this without observation, under cover of night, they might possibly reach the deep valleys of the range and put the marries off the scent. But there were dangers in this route. The last part of it was within pistol shot of natives posted on the lower slopes. Already when they ventured on the exposed part of the crest, they were saluted with a hail of shot, which did not reach them. Some gun wads, carried by the wind, fell beside them. They were made of printed paper, which Paganel picked up out of curiosity and with some trouble, deciphered. That is a good idea, my friends. Do you know what those creatures use for wads? No Paganel, said Glen Arvin. Pages of the Bible. If that is the use they make of the holy book, I pity the missionaries. It will be rather difficult to establish a Maori library. And what text of scripture did they aim at us? A message from God himself, exclaimed John Mangles, who was in the act of reading the scorched fragment of paper. It bids us hope in him, added the young captain, firm in the faith of his Scottish convictions. Read it, John, said Glen Arvin. And John read what the powder had left visible. I will deliver him, for he hath trusted in me. My friends, said Glen Arvin, we must carry these words of hope to our dear, brave ladies. The sound will bring comfort to their hearts. Glen Arvin and his companions hastened up the steep path to the cone and went toward the tomb. As they climbed, they were astonished to perceive every few moments a kind of vibration in the soil. It was not a movement like earthquake, but that peculiar tremor that affects the metal of a boiler under high pressure. It was clear the mountain was the outer covering of a body of vapour, the product of subterranean fires. This phenomenon, of course, excited no surprise in those that had just travelled among the hot springs of the Waikato, they knew that the central region of the Iqat-Namani is essentially volcanic. It is a sieve whose interstices furnish a passage for the earth's vapours in the shape of boiling geysers and sulphur terrors. Paganel, who had already noticed this, called the attention of his friends to the volcanic nature of the mountain. The peak of Munganamu was only one of the many cones which bristle on this part of the island. It was a volcano of the future. A slight mechanical change would produce a crater of eruption in these slopes, which consisted merely of whitish, siliceous tuffa. That may be, said Glen Arvin, but we are in no more danger here than standing by the boiler of the mountain. This solid crust is like sheet iron. I agree with you, added the Major, but however good a boiler may be, it bursts at last after too long service. McNabs, said Paganel, I have no fancy for staying on the cone. When Providence points out a way, I will go at once. I wish, remarked John, that Munganamu could carry us himself with all the motive power that he has inside. It is too bad that millions of horse-power should lie under our feet unavailable for our needs. Our Duncan could carry us to the end of the world with the thousandth part of it. The recollections of the Duncan, evoked by John Mangels, turned Glen Arvin's thoughts to the other side of the island. Turned Glen Arvin's thoughts into their saddest channel. For desperate as his own case was, he often forgot it, in vain regret at the fate of his crew. His mind still dwelt on it when he reached the summit of Munganamu and met his companions in misfortune. Lady Helena, when she saw Glen Arvin, came forward to meet him. Dear Edward, said she, you have made up your mind. Are we to hope or fear? Hope, my dear Helena, said Glen Arvin. The natives will never set foot on the mountain, and we shall have time to devise a plan of escape. More than that, madam, God himself has encouraged us to hope. And so saying, John Mangels handed to Lady Helena the fragment of paper on which was legible the sacred words. And these young women, whose trusting hearts were always open to observe providential interpositions, read in these words an indisputable sign of salvation. And now let us go to a dooper, cried Paganel, in his gayest mood. It is our castle, our dining room, our study. None can meddle with us there. Ladies, allow me to do the honours of this charming abode. They followed Paganel, and when the savages saw them profaning anew the tabooed burial place, they renewed their fire and their fearful yells, the one as loud as the other. But fortunately, the balls fell short of our friends, though the cries reached them. Lady Helena, Mary Grant and their companions were quite relieved to find that the Mourys were more dominated by superstition than by anger, and they entered the monument. It was a little palisade made of red painted posts, symbolic figures tattooed on the wood, set forth the rank and achievements of the deceased. Strings of amulets made of shells or cut stones hung from one part to another. In the interior the ground was carpeted with green leaves, and in the middle a slight mound betokened the place of the newly made grave. There lay the chief's weapons, his guns loaded and capped, his spear, his splendid acts of green jade, with the supply of powder and bore for the happy hunting grounds. Quite an arsenal, said Paganel, of which we shall make a better use. What ideas they have? Fenty carrying arms in the other world. Well, said the Major, but these are English firearms. No doubt, replied Glenarvon, and it is a very unwise practice to give firearms to savages. They turn them against the invaders naturally enough, but at any rate, they will be very valuable to us. Yes, said Paganel, but what is more useful, still, is the food and water provided for Karatate. Things have been handsomely done for the deceased chief. The amount of provisions denoted their esteem for the departed. There was food enough to sustain 10 persons for 15 days, or the dead man forever. The vegetable elements consisted of edible ferns, sweet potatoes, the convolvulus batatas, which was indigenous, and the potato, which had been imported long before by the Europeans. Large jars contained pure water, and a dozen baskets artistically plattered, contained tablets of an unknown green gum. The fugitives were therefore provided for some days against hunger and thirst, and they needed no persuasion to begin their attack on the deceased chief's stores. Glenarvon brought out the necessary quantity and put them into Albinitz's hands. The steward who never could forget his routine ideas, even in the most exceptional circumstances, thought the meal a slender one. He did not know how to prepare the routes and, besides, had no fire. But Paganel soon solved the difficulty by recommending him to bury his fern roots and sweet potatoes in the soil. The temperature of the surface stratum was very high, and a thermometer plunged into the soil would have marked from 160 to 170 degrees. In fact, Albinett narrowly missed being scolded, for just as he had scooped a hole for the roots, a jet of vapour sprang up and, with a whistling sound, rose six feet above the ground. The steward fell back in terror. "'Shut off steam!' cried the Major, running to close the hole with the loose drift, while Paganel pondering on the singular phenomenon muttered to himself. "'Let me see. Ha! Ha! Why not?' "'Are you hurt?' inquired Magnabs of Albinett. "'No, Major,' said the steward. "'But I did not expect. "'That providence would send you fire,' interrupted Paganel in a jovial tone. "'First the larder of Caratete and then the fire out of the ground. "'Upon my word, this mountain is a paradise. "'I propose that we found a colony "'and cultivate the soil and settle here for life. "'We shall be the Robinsons of Manganamu. "'We should want for nothing.' "'If it is solid ground,' said John Mangles. "'Well, it is not a thing of yesterday,' said Paganel. "'It has stood against the internal fire for many a day, "'and will do so till we leave it at any rate.' "'Breakfast is ready,' announced Albinett, "'with as much dignity as if he was in Malcolm Castle. "'Without delay, the fugitives sat down near the palisade "'and began one of the many meals "'with which providence had supplied them "'in critical circumstances. "'Nobody was inclined to be fastidious, "'but opinions were divided as regarded the edible fern. "'Some thought the flavour sweet and agreeable. "'Others pronounced it leathery, insipid, "'and resembling the taste of gum. "'The sweet potatoes cooked in the burning soil were excellent. "'The geographer remarked that Caratete was not badly off after all. "'And now that their hunger was appeased, "'it was time to decide on their plan of escape.' "'So soon,' exclaimed Paganel in a piteous tone, "'would you quit the home of delight so soon?' "'But, Monsieur Paganel,' interposed Lady Helena, "'if this be capua, you dare not intend to imitate Hannibal. "'Madame, I dare not contradict you, "'and if discussion is the order of the day, let it proceed. "'First,' said Glenarvin, "'I think we ought to start before we are driven to it by hunger. "'We are revived now, and ought to take advantage of it. "'Tonight we will try to reach the eastern valleys "'by crossing the cordon of natives under cover of the darkness.' "'Excellent,' answered Paganel, "'if the mowers allow us to pass.' "'And if not?' asked John Mangles. "'Then we will use our great resources,' said Paganel. "'But we have great resources,' inquired the Major. "'More than we can use,' replied Paganel, "'without any further explanation. "'And then they waited for the night.' The natives had not stirred. Their numbers seemed even greater, perhaps owing to the influx of the stragglers of the tribe. Fires lighted at intervals formed a girdle of flame round the base of the mountain. So that when darkness fell, Manganemu appeared to rise out of a great brazier and to hide its head in the thick darkness. Five hundred feet below, they could hear the hum and the cries of the enemy's camp. At nine o'clock, the darkness being very intense, Glenarvin and John Mangles went out to Reconoiter, before embarking the whole party on this critical journey. They made the descent noiselessly, and after about ten minutes arrived on the narrow ridge that crossed the natives' lines fifty feet above the camp. All went well so far. The mowers stretched beside the fires did not appear to observe the two fugitives. But in an instant a double fuselage burst forth from both sides of the ridge. Back, exclaimed Glenarvin, those wretches have the eyes of cats and the guns of riflemen. And they turned, and once more climbed the steep slope of the mountain, and then hastened to their friends who had been alarmed at the firing. Glenarvin's hat was pierced by two balls, and they concluded that it was out of the question to venture again on the ridge between two lines of marksmen. Wait till to-morrow, said Paganel, and, as we cannot elude their vigilance, let me try my hand on them. The night was cold, but happily Caratete had been furnished with his best night gear, and the party wrapped themselves each in a warm flax mantle, and, protected by native superstition, slept quietly inside the enclosure on the warm ground, still violating with the violence of the internal ebullition. In search of the castaways, or the children, of Captain Grant, by Jules Verne, Book III, Chapter XIV, a bold stratagem. Next day, February 17th. The sun's first rays awoke the sleepers of the Maganamu. The Mayorys had long since been a stir, coming and going at the foot of the mountain, without leaving their line of observation. Furious clamour broke out when they saw the Europeans leave the sacred place they had profaned. Each of the party glanced first at the neighbouring mountains, and at the deep valleys still drowned in mist, and over Lake Tapo, which the morning breeze ruffled slightly, and then all clustered round Paganel, eager to hear his project. Paganel soon satisfied their curiosity. My friends, said he, my plan has one great recommendation. If it does not accomplish all that I anticipate, we shall be no worse off than we are at present. But it must, it will succeed. And what is it? asked McNabs. It is this, replied Paganel, the superstition of the natives have made this mountain a refuge for us, and we must take advantage of their superstition to escape. If I can persuade Caicamo that we have expired our profanation, that the wrath of the deity has fallen on us, in a word that we have died a terrible death, do you think he will leave the plateau of Maganamu to return to his village? Not a doubt of it, said Glenarvon. And what is this horrible death you refer to? asked Lady Helena. The death of the sacrilegious, my friends, replied Paganel, the avenging flames are under our feet. Let us open away for them. What, make a volcano? cried John Mangels. Yes, an impromptu volcano, whose fury we can regulate. There are plenty of vapors ready to hand, and subterranean fires ready to issue forth. We can have an eruption ready to order. An excellent idea, Paganel. Well conceived, said the Major. You understand, replied the Geographer, we are to pretend to fall victims to the flame of the Miori Pluto, and to disappear spiritually into the tomb of Catatet. And stay there, three, four, even five days if necessary, that is to say, till the savages are convinced that we have perished and abandoned their watch. But, said Mrs. Grant, suppose they wish to be sure of our punishment and climb up here to see. No, my dear Mary, return, Paganel, they will not do that. The mountain is tabooed, and if it devoured its sacrilegious intruders, it would be only more inviolably tabooed. It is really a very clever plan, said Glenn Irvin. There is only one chance against it, that is, if the savages prolong their watch at the foot of Maganamu. We may run short of provisions, but if we play our game well, there is not much fear of that. And when shall we try this last chance? asked Lady Helena. Tonight, rejoined Paganel, when the darkness is the deepest. Agreed, said McNabs, Paganel, you are a genius, and I who seldom get up in enthusiasm, I answer for the success of your plan. Oh, those villains, they shall have a miracle that will put off their conversion for another century. I hope the missionaries will forgive us. The project of Paganel was therefore adopted, and certainly with the superstitious ideas of the Mayoris, there seemed good ground for hope. But brilliant as the idea might be, the difficulty was in the modus operandi. The volcano might devour the bold schemers, who offered it a crater. Could they control and direct the eruption when they had succeeded in letting loose its vapours and flames and lava streams? The entire cone might be engulfed. It was meddling with a phenomenon of which nature herself has the absolute monopoly. Paganel had thought of all this, but he intended to act prudently, and without pushing things to extremes. An appearance would be enough to dupe the Mayoris, and there was no need for the terrible realities of an eruption. How long that day seemed! Each one of the party inwardly counted the hours, all was made ready for flight. The Ojupa provisions were divided, and formed very portable packets. Some mats and firearms completed their light equipment, all of which they took from the tomb of the chief. It is needless to say that their preparations were made within the enclosure, and that they were unseen by the savages. At six o'clock the stewards served up a refreshing meal, where or when they would eat in the valleys of the ranges no one could foretell, so that they had to take in supplies for the future. The principal dish was composed of half a dozen rats, caught by Wilson and Stude. Lady Helena and Mary Grant obstinately refused to taste this game, which is highly esteemed by the natives, but the men enjoyed it like the real Mayoris. The meat was excellent in savoury, and the six devourers were devoured down to the bones. The evening twilight came on, the sun went down in a stormy-looking bank of clouds. A few flashes of lightning glanced across the horizon, and distant thunder pealed through the darkened sky. Paganel welcomed the storm, which was a valuable aid to his plans, and completed his programme. The savages are superstitiously affected by the great phenomena of nature. The New Zealanders think that thunder is the angry voice of Noi Atua, enlightening the fierce gleam of his eyes. Thus their deity was coming personally to chastise the violators of the taboo. At eight o'clock the summit of the Meganeuma was lost in pretentious darkness. The sky would supply a black background for the blaze which Paganel was about to throw on it. The Mayoris could no longer see their prisoners, and this was the moment for action. Speed was necessary. Glenarfan, Paganel, McNabs, Robert, the Stuart, and the two sailors all lent a hand. The spot for the crater was chosen, thirty paces from Keratet's tomb. It was important to keep the ojupa intact, for if it disappeared the taboo of the mountain would be nullified. At the spot mentioned Paganel had noticed an enormous block of stone, round which the vapours played with a certain degree of intensity. This block covered a small natural crater hollowed in the cone, and by its own weight prevented the egress of the subterranean fire. If they could move it from its socket the vapours and the lava would issue by the disencumbered opening. The workers used as levers some posts taken from the interior of the ojupa, and they piled their tools vigorously against the rocky mass. Under their united efforts the stone soon moved. They made a little trench so that it might roll down the inclined plain. As they gradually raised it the vibrations underfoot became more distinct. Dull roaring of flame and the whistling sound of a furnace ran along under the thin crust. The intrepid labourers, veritable cyclops, handling earth's fires, worked in silence. Soon some fishers and jets of steam warned them that their place was growing dangerous. But a crowning effort moved the mass which rolled down and disappeared. Immediately the thin crust gave way. A column of fire rushed to the sky with loud detonations, while streams of boiling water and lava flowed toward the native camp and the lower valleys. All the cone trembled as if it were about to plunge into a fathomless gulf. Klinarvan and his companions had barely time to get out of the way. They fled to the enclosure of the Adupa, not without having been sprinkled with water, at 220 degrees. This water at first spread a smell like soup, which soon changed into a strong odor of sulfur. Then the mud, the lava, the volcanic stones, all spouted forth in a torrent. Streams of fire furrowed the sides of Maganamu. The neighbouring mountains were lit up by the glare. The dark valleys were also filled with dazzling light. All the savages had risen howling under the pain inflicted by the burning lava, which was bubbling and foaming in the midst of their camp. Those whom the liquid fire had not touched fled to the surrounding hills, then turned, and gazed in terror at this fearful phenomena, this volcano in which the anger of their deity would swallow up the profane intruders on the sacred mountain. Now and then, when the roar of the eruption became less violent, their cry was heard. An enormous quantity of vapours, heated stones, and lava was escaping by this crater of Maganamu. It was not a mere geyser like those that girded round Mount Hekla. In Iceland it was itself a Hekla. All this volcanic commotion was confined till then in the envelope of the cone, because the safety valve of Tangariro was enough for its expansion. But when this new issue was afforded it rushed forth fiercely, and by the laws of equilibrium the other eruptions in the island must on that night have lost their usual intensity. An hour after this volcano burst upon the world, broad streams of lava were running down its sides. Legions of rats came out of their holes and fled from the scene. All night long, and fanned by the tempest in the upper sky, the crater never ceased to pour forth its torrents with a violence that alarmed Glenarvon. The eruption was breaking away the edges of the opening. The prisoners, hidden behind the enclosure of stakes, watched with the fearful progress of the phenomenon. Morning came, the fury of the volcano had not slackened. Thick yellowish fumes were mixed with the flames. The lava torrents wound their serpentine course in every direction. Glenarvon watched with a beating heart, looking from all the interstices of the palisaded enclosure, and observed the movements in the native camp. The meories had fled to the neighbouring ledges out of the reach of the volcano. Some corpses which lay at the foot of the cone were charred by the fire. Further off towards the pa, the lava had reached a group of twenty huts, which were still smoking. The meories, forming here and there groups, contemplated the canopied summit of Manganamu with religious awe. Kaikomo approached in the midst of his warriors, and Glenarvon recognized him. The chief advanced to the foot of the hill, on the side untouched by the lava, but he did not ascend the first ledge. Standing there with his arms stretched out like an exorciser, he made some grimaces. Whose meaning was obvious to the prisoner. As Paganel had foreseen, Kaikomo launched on the avenging mountain a more rigorous taboo. Soon after the natives left their positions, and followed the winding paths that led toward the pa. They are going, exclaimed Glenarvon. They have left their post. God be praised. Our stratagem has succeeded. My dear Lady Helena, my brave friends, we are all dead and buried, but this evening when night comes, we shall rise and leave our tombs, and fly these barbarous tribes. It would be difficult to conceive of the joy that pervaded the Odupa. Hope had regained the mastery in all hearts. The intrepid travellers forgot the past, forgot the future, to enjoy the present delight. And yet the task before them was not an easy one, to gain some European outpost in the midst of this unknown country. But Kaikomo, once off their track, they thought themselves safe from all the savages in New Zealand. A whole day had to elapse before they could make a start, and they employed it in arranging a plan of flight. Paganel had treasured up his map of New Zealand, and on it could trace out the best roads. After discussion the fugitives resolved to make for the Bay of Plenty towards the east. The region was unknown, but apparently desert. The travellers, who from their past experience had learned to make light of physical difficulties, feared nothing but meeting mayories. At any cost they wanted to avoid them, and gain the east coast, where the missionaries had several stations. That part of the country had hitherto escaped the horrors of war, and the natives were not in the habit of scouring the country. As to the distance that separated Lake Taupo from the Bay of Plenty, they calculated it about a hundred miles. Ten days march at ten miles a day could be done, not without fatigue, but none of the party gave that a thought. If they could only reach the mission stations, they could rest there while waiting for a favourable opportunity to get to Auckland, for that was the point they desired to reach. This question settled. They resumed their watch of the native proceedings, and continued doing so till evening fell. Not a solitary native remained at the foot of the mountain, and when darkness set in over the Taupo valleys, not a fire indicated the presence of the mayories at the base. The road was free. At nine o'clock, the night being unusually dark, Glenarvon gave the orders to start. His companion and he, armed and equipped at the expense of Caratet, began cautiously to descend the slopes of Meganamu. John Mangles and Wilson leading the way, eyes and ears on the alert. They stopped at the slightest sound. They started at every passing cloud. They slid, rather than walked, down the spur, that their figures might be lost in the dark mass of the mountain. At two hundred feet below the summit, John Mangles and his sailors reached the dangerous ridge that had been so obstinately defended by the natives. If, by ill luck, the mayories, more cunning than the fugitives, had only pretended to retreat, if they were not really duped by the volcanic phenomenon, this was the spot where their presence would be betrayed. Glenarvon could not but shudder, in spite of his confidence, and in spite of the jokes of Paganel. The fate of the whole party would hang in the balance for the ten minutes required to pass along that ridge. He felt the beating of Lady Helena's heart as she clung to his arm. He had no thought of turning back, neither had John. The young captain followed closely by the whole party, and protected by the intense darkness, crept along the ridge, stopping when some loose stones rolled to the bottom. If the savages were still in the ambush below, these unusual sounds might provoke from both sides a dangerous fuselade. But speed was impossible in their serpent-like progress down this sloping crest. When John Mangles had reached the lowest point he was scarcely twenty-five feet from the plateau, where the natives were encamped the night before. And then the ridge rose again pretty steeply toward a wood for about a quarter of a mile. All this lower part was crossed without molestation, and they commenced the ascent in silence. The clump of bush was invisible, though they knew it was there. And but for the possibility of an ambush Glenarvon counted on being safe when the party arrived at that point. But he observed that after this point they were no longer protected by the taboo. The ascending ridge belonged not to the Maganamu but to the mountain system of the eastern side of Lake Tapoe, so that they had not only pistol shots but hand to hand fighting to fear. For ten minutes the little band ascended by insensible degrees toward the higher taboo land. John could not discern the dark wood, but he knew it ought to be within two hundred feet. Suddenly he stopped, almost retreated. He fancied he heard something in the darkness. His stoppage interrupted the march of those behind. He remained motionless long enough to alarm his companions. They waited with unspeakable anxiety, wondering if they were doomed to retrace their steps and return to the summit of Maganamu. But John finding that the noise was not repeated resumed the ascent of the narrow path of the ridge. Soon they perceived the shadowy outline of the wood showing faintly through the darkness a few more steps and they were hid from the site in the thick foliage of the trees.