The sound of his own voice seemed to break the spell of horror which had fallen over him, and he rushed away from serpent root and blighted bough with which nature herself had written on the hateful spot, "Accursed."
He no longer wondered that the Maori boy refused to go with him. The slightest suspicion of impatience and contempt had vanished from his tone when he spoke again.
"Look at it, Whero."
But Whero looked not at the bird, but at his friend.
"Did you go far?" he asked.
"Only to the top," answered Edwin.
"Not to the top," persisted Whero, lowering his voice and whispering hoarsely. "There is a spot up there, a fatal spot, where the grass never grows and the air breathes death. Ask me not for more. Come away."
He seized Edwin's arm and drew him backwards. The desolate bird shook itself free, and flew to him with a cry of joy.
"It is my kaka," he exclaimed, "my own dear redbreast, calling out, 'Return.'"
"Are you satisfied, Whero?" asked Edwin, in tones of heartfelt sympathy. "Have we searched far enough? Shall we go back and try to make our way to the ford or across to the diggers?"