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wake when he chose, having acquired that habit in the latter part of the time at Paranui, when it had been very necessary. He was not troubled by any dreams, for he was on the point of carrying out his own wishes, a situation always peculiarly soothing to him. It was not going to be easy, that was clear, but it was quite useless to worry.

Tony woke at the time he had wished, and got away almost immediately, his preparations being simple to the verge of bareness. It was quite dark, but he knew the stars he had to steer by, the night was fairly cool, and his heavy swag felt light on his shoulders. He walked as if something was lifting him up from the ground, and enjoyed it, even as he thought, with grim resignation, that the pleasure would not last long.

The huge velvet-black night slept all about him, he could not even hear it breathe. His footsteps made hardly any sound. The faintly aromatic dust rose in his nostrils; as he descended one of the rare slight hollows he could feel its softness thick over his feet, and he thought of the red hell on that plain before a strong wind, and prayed to be far away when the next one rose. Dust could be rather a serious matter at times. . . .

The stars went out one by one, the air turned from black to blue-grey, “like ink when you pour water into it,” thought Tony unpoetically. Presently he could see the edge of the plain. The east was a clear sulphur colour—the crest of a white cockatoo—it was lovely, but Tony did not welcome it. Once the sun had risen he did not mean to walk much longer, and yet he wanted to get on as quickly as possible. He decided to walk till it got really hot, rest a long time till the blaze seemed to die away a little, walk again till sunset, and sleep. As yet, he knew, he could not sleep through the daytime and walk all night, but he hoped to bring himself to that gradually.

The east deepened to orange, a quick dazzling ray shot