'Let us go nearer,' whispered Terence. 'You can speak to them if they seem inclined to be nasty.'
But the Maoris who faced them continued to stare unconcernedly, while the others neither turned their heads nor made any motion of inquiry towards their fellows. They were evidently men of distinction, for their mats were of the finest workmanship, while the hair of each, carefully dressed, was adorned with the coronet of huia[[1]] plumes, the invariable mark of a chief.
[[1]] Neomorpha Gouldii—A rare bird.
The two moved quietly forward until they were within six paces of the silent chiefs, who still neither moved nor spoke.
'Salutations, O friends!' began George. 'Far be it from us rudely to disturb your meditations; but——'
He broke off abruptly. Not a movement, not a change of expression upon the grim faces. Silent, motionless, rigid, the ten chiefs sat, and, suddenly, the truth flashed upon George.
'Terence!' He caught his breath. 'They are all dead men!'
'Dead men?'
'Yes. Where are their eyes?'
'Dead men without eyes!' The emotional Irishman shuddered, and, scarcely knowing what he was about, poked his bundle of torches into the back of the figure nearest to him. Instantly the uncanny thing fell over, and at the sight revealed Terence burst into wild, hysterical laughter.