The busy sounds of trampling feet, the many voices breaking the silence of the past days, roused Edwin effectually, and then he discovered that the door of the room in which he had slept resisted his most strenuous efforts to open it.
He called to Dunter to release him. No reply. A louder shout, accompanied by a sturdy kick at the immovable door, gave notice of his growing impatience. The kaka, which had been watching his determined efforts with exceeding interest, set up its cry of "Hoké, hoké!"
"We are caged, my bird," said Edwin; "both of us caged completely."
His eye wandered round in search of any outlet in vain. All his experiences since the night of the eruption had taught him to look to himself, and he turned to the window. It was securely shuttered and apparently barred.
"How strange!" he thought, as a sudden shock of earthquake made the iron walls around him rattle and vibrate, as if they too were groaning in sympathetic fear.
The kaka flew to him for protection, and strove to hide its head. Another tremor all around sent it cowering to the floor. Edwin stooped to pick it up, and saw that the thin sheet of iron which formed the partition between that room and the next had started forward. He found the knife which Dunter had left him, and widened the crack. He could slip his hand through it now. The walls were already twisted with the shocks they had sustained. He got hold of the iron with both hands, and exerting all his strength bent it up from the floor. His head went through. Another vigorous tug, another inch was gained; his shoulders followed, and he wriggled through at last in first-rate worm fashion.
"It is something to be thin," thought Edwin, as he shook himself into order on the other side. He was in another bedroom, exactly similar to the one he had left. Both were designed for the reception of "the coach;" but door and window were securely fastened, as in the other room. The sounds which had awakened him must have been the noise accompanying some departure, for he thought he could distinguish the splash of oars in the water, and words of leave-taking. But the voices were strange voices, which he had never heard before, and then all was profoundly still.
It dawned on Edwin now that perhaps he had not been shut in by accident, but that something had occurred. He was getting very near the truth, for he recalled Nga-Hepé's threats, and wondered whether friend or foe had made him a prisoner.
Well, then, was it wise to keep making such a row to get out? He began to see the matter in a different light. He lay down on the bed in the second room, determined to listen and watch; but in his worn-out condition sleep overcame him a second time.
The kaka missed his society, and followed to perch on his pillow. He was awakened at last by its scream. The window was open, and the bird was fluttering in and out in a playful endeavour to elude a hand put through to catch it. Edwin was springing upright, when his recent experiences reminded him of the need of caution. But the movement had been heard, and a voice, which he knew to be Whero's, said softly, "Edwin, my brother, are you awake?"