The third day was nearing its close when the little party, having skirted the three-cornered deep blue lake of Taka-tapu, threaded the tangled forests over the Waipa plain, and ascended the bare hills of the range which looks on Rotorua. The lake, gleaming in the sunlight, lay beneath them, with the fumaroles, steam-hammers, and geysers of Whakarewarewa in full blast.
CHAPTER VIII
It was decided to camp on the border of the lake between the village of Ohinemutu, where the old historic pah, with its grim carven giants of the Wharepuni, looks frowningly down upon the little Roman Catholic chapel. Clouds of steam arose in all directions above them, while the scattered pools exhibited the pervading warmth combined with sulphur fumes.
"We are now on historic ground," said Warwick; "for, without counting Hinemoa—there is her island—all manner of legends abound; some of them horrible enough in all conscience, ghastly to a degree," he continued, gazing across the lake. "Mokoia looks peaceful enough now, with scarcely a hundred people on it all told. Yet what tales those rocks could tell! The island was a grand resort for the tribe in the days before gunpowder. In war-time they could paddle over from this side, and defy any enemy that had arrived on foot. There was no waterway to Rotorua. However, Hongi-ika-kai-tangata taught them a lesson."
"What was that?"
"When the tribe retired there, as usual, they did not reckon on an unexpected move of the fiercest and most crafty chief of his day, and that is saying a good deal if all tales be true."
"How did he get over without boats; for I take it they didn't leave any canoes on the hither side?"