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The Greenstone Door

Chapter XXI I Leave Auckland and Fall into an Ambush

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Chapter XXI I Leave Auckland and Fall into an Ambush

I do not remember whether it was on my first or second visit to the city—for my stay in Auckland was not continuous—that I ran across Richard Brompart. I should mention that some years previously Mr. Brompart had found it necessary to pay what he described to us in his correspondence as a "flying" visit to England. Whether he had ever really had an intention of returning I cannot say, but I incline to the belief that his long absence was not premeditated, but arose from the discovery that his endurance of his family was after all a vicious habit, of which he could very pleasantly break himself. At all events he was still in England, and there, for all I could learn to the contrary, he was likely to remain.

Shortly after his departure we received a notification to the effect that the business hitherto conducted by Mr. Brompart senior would, during that gentleman's absence in England, be carried on by his sons, who solicited, etc., and were our obedient servants R. and F. Brompart. But, untrained in business habits, the sort of services they rendered fell far short of what our growing business demanded, if only in attention and promptitude. I did not know what in particular it was that caused my father to put an end to the connection. He did not volunteer the information, and I did not ask him. Apparently it was something difficult or impossible to palliate, for page 294they made no attempt to do so, but suffered the business to pass into other hands without a murmur.

Recollecting this and the manner of our parting, I was surprised at the warmth of Richard's greeting. A happy boyhood spent together might have accounted for the exuberance of his pleasure at the sight of me. Hooking his arm in mine, he led me to his office, smarter and more business-like than I had expected, and there, for the best part of an hour, chattered away unreservedly of the years during which I had been an inmate of his father's house. His recollections were uniformly pleasant, even joyous, and but for an occasional gleam in the depths of his eyes I should have felt compelled to review my own memories of the period. But there was that in his eyes which conflicted with his words and tones, and kept me cold for all his appearance of friendliness. Janet, he told me, was still unmarried, and he laughed his high, gleeful laugh. "For all her scheming, it was little Sarah who drew the prize—Captain Mansfield—you recollect the Captain?—they are living in England."

"And Fred and John?" I asked.

"John married and went farming. He was always the fool of the family. Fred is away for a few days. You must come and see him when he returns. He will be delighted." Suddenly he fell to laughing. "Only just thought of it! That fight you and I had behind the stable. Forget what it was about, but it was a great go. Ended inconclusively, of course. You could beat me now, though," he added, measuring me with his eye. "Nothing like a country life."

"Fred also is still unmarried?" I asked.

He nodded. "Clear-headed chap, Fred. He is not one to throw himself away, and women with the wherewithal to keep a husband in decent comfort are not too common in this hole of a place."

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His voice was querulous but recovered its good-humour as he began to question me in my turn.

"You won't be able to stop up there long," he said presently. "The whole country will be on fire before we are many months older. Purcell was wise not to invest in land, though my father considered him a fool. He will be able to get everything away and lie by till the storm blows over. Look here, my boy; there is going to be a good time when we get through with the Maoris. The Waikato will fall into the hands of the Government, as sure as we sit here."

"Auckland might fall into the hands of the natives first," I said, repressing my disgust with difficulty.

He look at me thoughtfully, biting at his forefinger, a habit he had inherited from his father. "You don't suppose they could possibly come out on top?" he asked curiously.

"At all events, there will be no vindictive seizure of their lands," I replied. "The loser, of course, must pay in reason, but there will be no wholesale alienation. If it were so the war could not be ended in fifty years."

He sat a moment cogitating, then, putting out his foot, closed the partly open door till the catch snapped. "Could you do with a few cases of machinery?" he asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

"Machinery?"

"As before. I can put you on to a fairly big line; three hundred at least. I suppose they are worth almost anything now."

We sat staring at one another. I could discover no clue to the peculiar significance in his voice.

"What?" he exclaimed at last, puzzled. "Here!" and taking me to a high desk beneath the window, he pulled down an old and bulky account book from the shelf above. Running his fingers over the edges of the leaves, page 296he opened it at an account headed with my father's name. Without speaking, he indicated here and there with a pencil point certain items of cases of machinery and barrels of machine oil. They extended back a long way, even into the days when my own eyes had scanned and my own figures footed the page.

"They probably related to the mills," I said, still completely at a loss. "But everything is at a standstill now. We could find no market for them."

"Tush!" he exclaimed, laughing. "If it were any one else I should think he was bluffing. Can't you guess what these cases and barrels really contained?"

A cold wave of dread came over me, and for a moment I answered him nothing.

His eyes came slyly round towards me. "There won't be many more such chances," he said. "The authorities are getting suspicious. Shall we go round and arrange a deal?"

Cold rage was in my heart, but fear kept any expression of it from my lips. His manner gave me little hope that he was lying, and there were other reasons—now first obtruding themselves—for believing that he spoke the truth. Only one hope was left me, and I put it to the test.

"Certainly not," I said stoutly. "Since the repeal of the Act, we have, of course, not traded in guns or ammunition."

His hand rapidly turned a few pages, paused irresolutely, and finally closed the book. "It's all right, Cedric," he said, with a laugh that disquieted me. "If you don't want them you don't, and there's an end of it. Of course," he added, "you understand they are only made for sale or else——" and he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, now, when are you coming up to the old place?"

I left him, my mind full of foreboding. Unsuspicious, as Helenora had called me, I was keen enough once sus-page 297picion was aroused. Not for a moment did I doubt that my foster-father had trafficked in arms both with and against the consent of the law. Arms, no doubt, formed the basis of his agreement with Te Huata, the bribe wherewith he had purchased the ariki's silence and goodwill. Had he foreseen the hour of conflict, or was his action erected on the precarious belief that peace would endure? I could not answer the question.

I have spoken of my own doings with the view of averting war, but my father had not remained quiescent. Letters which only persons of intellect and learning could thoroughly comprehend had appeared in the daily press over his name. Little men had replied to them, as little men are apt to do, missing the deep appeal, avoiding the unanswerable logic, fixing only on the espousal of the native cause, and heaping thereon their self-righteous contumely and personal abuse. They had more noise than he, and, as usual, the crowd followed the noise. He had become a marked man, and I dared not contemplate what might be the result of spreading broadcast the knowledge which now seemed confined to the Bromparts.

My interviews with Sir George Grey had led only to a recognition of the extreme difficulty of the Governor's position. "War," he said to me on the occasion of our parting, 'resembles a disease. Permit it to establish itself in men's minds, and it has to run its course. Skill can make it less terrible in its consequences, but it cannot prevent it accomplishing itself. The disease was already established in the blood of the people before I landed here, and no effort can eradicate it till it has run its course. Yet, for all that, effort must continue."

"If you would only abandon Waitara——" I began.

"I intend to abandon Waitara," he replied, almost impatiently; "But, my dear boy, it isn't that. It isn't Waitara; it isn't Tataraimaka. It's the germs; the page 298infinitesimal little things that fill the air where white men and brown men meet."

"I feel that, but——"

"Come, don't wear your heart out battling against the fates. England will strike with reluctance; she will hold her hand on a word of submission."

"To regard war as inevitable is to make it so," I objected.

"Et tu, Brute! My every action takes for granted the impossibility of war; but my mind sits up aloft and watches the making of the tide. There is an intuition that tells a man when his efforts are futile. I had it in the Waikato when I was arguing with Ngatihaua. He had it, too, beyond doubt; yet both of us would have made great personal sacrifices to preserve peace."

An aide brought him a dispatch, and I rose to go. It was past one o'clock in the morning, for the hours he appointed to receive me were usually in the neighbourhood of midnight.

"Wait," he said. "I was about to tell you that, General Cameron having occupied Tataraimaka without opposition, there is no longer an excuse for delaying the proclamation with regard to Waitara, and it shall be gazetted at once."

He broke open the dispatch in his hand and, with a murmur of apology, began to read it. I knew by the sudden rigidity that came into his attitude that the letter contained news of grave importance. Desiring not to obtrude my presence at such a moment, I was making my way to the door when he called me back.

"You may as well know the contents of this," he said. "It will be public knowledge within the next few hours. Heaven knows I have spared no pains to avoid a conflict. I have been longsuffering—too long, perhaps; but that is at an end. The natives have set fire to the thatch, and now the house will burn. Listen," and he read to me that portion of the dispatch which reported the killing of page 299Lieutenant Tragett, Dr. Hope, and a party of the 57th on the beach near New Plymouth. Of the little party of eight only one had escaped to tell the tale of the ambush.

I sat down again, recognising that my stay in Auckland was at an end, and that to-night I must bid him good-bye.

"Does your humanity still see a way of escape?" he asked.

I shook my head. I was really too stunned by the news to think collectedly.

"What will you do?" he asked in a kinder tone. "Even for you it will be dangerous to return among the natives. Will you accept a commission in Her Majesty's forces?"

"No sir," I replied; "that is quite impossible."

"Then become an interpreter: we shall need such men as you. Shall I send you with a letter to General Cameron? In such a capacity your sympathy with the natives would be a help rather than a hindrance to us."

I hesitated. "Would you mind telling me what your first step will be, sir?" I asked.

"No. We shall of course occupy the Waikato in strength. Fighting must not approach Auckland. General Cameron's objective will no doubt be the seat of the disturbance—the King Country. Probably we shall call on all chiefs to take the oath of allegiance to the Queen. Failing that, they must retire beyond some natural landmark—say the Mangatawhiri Creek—which will become an arbitrary frontier."

"I must go, sir," I said, rising. "If you will give me the note to General Cameron, I will consult with my father as to whether I shall make use of it."

"You are going home, then," he observed, seating himself at his desk and drawing writing materials before him. "Let me advise you to lose no time going or returning. You must persuade Mr. Purcell to leave the place for the time being. We shall act with vigour, for that is the only page 300form of mercy left to us." He wrote the note, enclosed it in an envelope, and handed it to me. "Then I take it that for the present I shall not see you again?"

"No, sir. I shall start in a few hours. Thank you for your many kindnesses to me."

"I am as kind as you will let me be, Cedric," he responded, laughing and laying his hand with an affectionate pressure on my shoulder. 'Is there nothing else I can do for you? Come, rack your brains. What in heaven or earth?"

"Ah, sir!" I said, moved by a sudden blind, wild impulse, "have you a voice in heaven? Then use it in my behalf."

I knew that he understood me: his momentary look of embarrassment was an answer to all my puzzling. It told me plainly as words that my instinct had not deceived me; that in defiance of all probabilities my love and I were beneath the same skies, even perhaps at that moment beneath the same roof. It told me also that some pledge held him—a pledge he would fain break if he might.

"There is something in being a figure of romance," he said with gentle whimsicality. "Do not seek to get rid of your nebulous splendour recklessly. As for my voice, it may not be altogether unavailing."

"That is all you can tell me, sir?" I pleaded.

"I can neither admit nor deny. It would be well if you could wait a few days. Colonel Wylde is on his way to Auckland."

"I must not delay," I said reluctantly, "even for that."

"Every hour will increase the danger you run," he agreed.

We parted then, and after wandering round the dark house with my new knowledge until the suspicions of the guard were aroused, I made my way straight to the Maori hostelry where I knew that my old friend Tetere was passing the night.

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It was not until I had awakened many sleepers that I found him and led him shivering and yawning bitterly into the wintry night air.

"Friend," he said, when I had disclosed my business, "remain here. Here is well; but beyond"—he turned his face towards the dark, cloud-piled south—"there are many war-parties looking for the flying fish."

I knew better than to argue with him, and continued quietly to develop the plan I had formed. No ship was available for over a week; the route I had travelled on my previous journey, through the populous and now disaffected district of the Waikato, was one possibly of danger, and almost certainly of delay; but there remained the Piako—"A river of shallows and snags," interpolated Tetere—the Piako, which would carry me many miles on my way; but first of all to a village whose chief was my friend. Let Tetere, then, hasten with the making ready of his boat while I myself returned with all speed to my lodgings. I left him still unwilling and protesting, but by the noise that sprang up in the hostelry ere I was well away from it, I knew that he was arousing his crew.

Fortunately wind and tide were favourable for an immediate departure, and before day broke we had opened out the Firth of Thames and were heading for the mouth of the Piako. It was a gloomy and depressing morning, clouds hanging to the land and sweeping the waters in squalls of wind and rain. A prey alternately to hopes and fears—hopes when I recalled Helenora's presence in New Zealand, fears when I reflected on the stormy days to come—the weather affected me but little; but my three companions, insufficiently protected from its inclemency, and with nothing to distract their attention from it, fell shortly into a morose silence. Nor did matters improve when we had entered the river. The wind which had hurried us on our way died down, and thenceforth the rain page 302fell in torrents. I will not dwell on the rest of that miserable day. From the boat Tetere and I ultimately transferred ourselves to the dinghy and, as night was falling, landed with cramped limbs at the bourne of our journey.

The village children were the first to espy us as we walked up through the leafless orchard in the direction of the whares; their cries of "Pakeha! Pakeha!" causing every hut to put forth its inmates, many, even of the women, with guns in their hands. The chief himself was the last to emerge. He stood watching our approach until I had advanced near enough for recognition, when a quick word to those around him brought about an entire change in the aspect of the villagers. Weapons disappeared as if by magic, and the threatening silence gave place to cries of welcome.

Ihaka greeted me with a hongi and, regarding the lamentable condition to which my garments had been reduced, declared in the abundance of his hospitality that if I had but forewarned him everything, and inferentially the weather, would have been different. However, here I was. If there were no European clothes fit for a person of my dignity, there were at least blankets and fires. Food was about to be served. Some beneficent influence had moved the young men to go forth in the morning for pigeon and wild duck, and the pots were now full. Welcome also to the tribesman of the Ngatipaoa. Thus Ihaka, as he conducted me into the guest-house and set his hand-maidens to work to supply my needs. Not a word nor hint as to the trouble between his race and mine; not a question as to the object of my journey or its destination. These were matters for the guest to disclose if it so pleased him. And when food and fire had restored sensation to my chilled body, it did please me. He heard me in silence, agreeing with a lift of the brows to my request that he should transport me to the head-waters of the stream, a page 303long day's march from Matakiki. More, his son Hone was travelling in that direction and would accompany me to the end of my journey; it was but taking one track in place of another.

Expressing my satisfaction with the arrangement, I asked if Hone were travelling far.

There was a momentary silence, the company looking expectantly at the bright-eyed youth of some twenty years, who sat a short distance away in company with several of his own age.

"Akarana (Auckland)," said Hone, showing his white teeth in a broad smile.

A titter of laughter, respectfully subdued in deference to the feelings of the guest, followed the bold reply, and all eyes were bent upon me. I could not mistake what was meant.

"It is a long journey, friend Hone," I said mildly; for the waste and pity of war were strong in my mind as I contemplated his eager youth.

"True," observed some of the elder people, in voices that showed that they recognised the gravity of the position.

"What need for silence with the son of the Thumb?" said Ihaka. "Loud is the sound of the war-trumpet at the pa in the mountains, and thither flock the young warriors of many hapus. Soon the great snake will wind down on to the plains and the driving will begin."

"Too long have the men of Taranaki stood alone for the Maori nation," said another. "Let there not be three deaths for Taranaki, Waikato, and Ngatimaniapoto, but, if it must be, one death for all."

"And yet," I said, "Maori will war with Maori, as it was in the days of their fathers. As Heke fought, so will you. But this is for the time to come. What of to-day? What of the white men the ariki has sheltered?"

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"Where is the butterfly when the sun hides his face?" asked Ihaka.

His reply disquieted me, for I found it difficult to reconcile with the warmth of welcome he had extended to myself. "Does the chief say that all the white men have already left the district?" I asked.

"To them was brought the word of the ariki—'Go now, or remain for ever.'"

"And what was the answer of the Thumb?"

A murmur, as it seemed of surprise, ran round the interested group of listeners, and again I was aware that all eyes were concentrated upon me.

"The Thumb!" exclaimed Ihaka. "Of a certainty no such message was sent to a high chief of the Ngatimaniapoto."

I sat regarding him with fixed gaze, allowing the dread truth to penetrate to the inmost recesses of my mind. How often in the past had my step skirted the precipice unwittingly! Now, at last, the abyss lay revealed to my gaze.

"Does the chief suppose that the Thumb will take up arms against the men of his own race?" I heard myself ask, while my deeper thoughts were at work probing the gloom for foothold.

"Why not?" responded Ihaka coldly. "If Maori fight against Maori in this quarrel, why not English against English?"

Again I was reduced to silence. Was it indeed logical to regard the native ally as one worthy of esteem while he of our blood who took up arms against us was a proper object of execration? No shadow of doubt remained in my mind as to the correctness of what Ihaka had said. A hundred memories confirmed its probability. One in particular I had carried in my mind for twenty years. Puzzled by his easy command of tongues, I had once asked page 305him, "To what race do you belong, father?" "To the human race, my son," was his answer.

So intolerable was the oppression of my thoughts that with a murmur of excuse I rose to my feet and sought the outside of the cabin. Rain had ceased, and through the broken cloudscape I saw the brighter stars of the Cross and the brilliant silver lamp of Proxima Centauri. He was there too—in the heaven as in the earth. Where might I look for anything his mind had not touched and communicated to mine? He was interested in everything, the leaf, the blight upon it, the stone, the star—all spoke their message to him. What a splendid tolerance was his, but for that one fatal exception—civilisation! And now it had carried him—how far? And Puhi-Huia!

I wandered down to the stream and stood staring at the swollen, muddy water. Despair was in my heart. The swelling bud of hope withered and died within me. The solid earth seemed to have slipped from beneath, leaving me in some land of nightmare. Impassable barriers encompassed me. Look where I would, no road revealed itself.

"It is already falling," said the liquid voice of Hone beside me. "See the sticks the children have placed in the bank; now they are beyond reach of the water. The pakeha need not fear delay in his journey."

I fancied I heard curiosity in his tones, and caught at the cue he gave me. "I must go on at all costs, Hone," I agreed; "but the wind is in the south, and the day will be fine. Do you know if the Thumb is still at Matakiki?"

"He remains there," said Hone, "He is not of the first war-party."

"Let us return and sleep," I said, relieved of my first fear; "for we must start early. Who leads the taua,1 friend?"

1 Taua = war-party.

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"Rewi is our war-chief. With him go Rangiora and other of the sons of the high chiefs."

"Rangiora, you say?"

"Well is it with Rangiora that when the driving is over he takes for his wife the singing bird of Matakiki. No maid so fair as Plume of the Huia."

Most of the company had dispersed when we regained the whare. In the dim candle-light Ihaka sat in close consultation with three or four leading men of the hapu, but the women and younger people had disappeared. Their voices died away suddenly as we approached, and it occurred to me that there was a new expression in the faces they turned towards me. Was it due to the shadows, or had doubt and embarrassment really taken the place of the candour and cordiality of their first manner? Had I, perhaps, absorbed in my own emotions, given them reason to suspect my sympathy with their cause?

The morning, as I had prognosticated, was fair, the flood waters had subsided, and everything conduced to an early start. Everything, that is, save the will of the chief. For some reason Ihaka was loath to part with me. Insisting that a full meal was a necessary preliminary for such a journey, he kept me kicking my heels until sufficient dry wood had been collected for the making of a hangi.1 I could not observe that this task was prosecuted with any extraordinary diligence, nor in the preparing of the food did the women do justice to the nimbleness of their fingers. Long before the meal was ready Tetere, who had wished to see me start on my journey, found his patience exhausted, and came to bid me good-bye. I gave him a wad of notes and asked him to make a generous recompense to the two men we had left shivering in the boat some miles back.

He examined the packet doubtfully. "It is well that they should be paid," he said, "but here is too great a

1 Hangi = food cooked among heated stones.

page 307reward. Does the Little Finger propose that they should live hereafter in idleness? As for me, I take no payment from my friend of many years," and, subtracting two notes, he attempted to put the packet back into my hand.

"Nonsense!" I said, with friendly roughness. "What are these scraps of paper, that they should lead to a quarrel between us two? Take them, and if you are without needs yourself, buy a gown for your wife and new clothes for the little ones, that so they may remember the pakeha with kindliness."

"An evil thing it is," he replied, "that now for the first time I should wish myself without a wife that so I might accompany my friend to the end of his journey." And again he attempted to thrust the money upon me.

"Listen, Tetere," I said. "Here we part. Heaven knows where, if ever, we may meet again. Let there be no dispute between us. This is a thing that I truly wish, that you should take freely from me, as I would not hesitate to take from you. For long I have contemplated making you a present, and now behold it accomplished."

"Your memory is short," said Tetere, unmoved. "Is not my boat named Little Finger after the friend who gave it to me?"

He had me there, but I was resolute not to accept return of my gift, and, feigning annoyance at his persistency, he was shortly reduced to submission.

"Go then, friend of my heart and the Maori people," he said. "May the gods of pakeha and Maori keep all evil things from your path and bring you to the desire of your heart."

"Go, friend," I responded. "Remain with the Ngatipaoa at peace; so shall no harm come to you, and so shall I find you in safety on my return."

The sun was high in the heavens before our canoe was finally launched and, with Hone and another youth at the page 308paddles, began the ascent of the stream. So late Was it that, despite the cheerful assurances of Ihaka, I knew that it would be quite impossible to reach the end of our journey before the decline of the sun made further travel impossible. Once started, however, the young men seemed disposed to lose no further time. Encouraging one another with staves of a boat-song, improvised for the occasion, they urged the vessel along at a speed which soon took us out of sight of the settlement. Sunk as I was in unhappy reveries, their gay voices scarcely reached my consciousness; even the sound of my own name in their songs awakening no curiosity in my breast. Had I roused myself to attend, it may be I should have caught an inkling of something which nearly concerned me, and so given to this chapter of my life a different reading.

As we neared the head of the stream, the speed of our progress was interrupted by difficulties in the water-way; snags blocked the channel, and at times we were forced to land and transport our light vessel by well-defined but muddy portage ways on the river bank. It was thus past noon when we arrived at the end of the first stage of our journey, where the ten-mile track to the Waikato debouched on the stream. It was a wild and desolate spot, with no sign of habitation, and I was consequently surprised to catch sight of a smaller canoe, partly concealed among the foliage a few yards from the landing. I was on the point of opening my lips to comment upon the circumstance, when the dense manuka1 that fringed the water rustled and parted, and a native stepped into view. He was a stranger to me; a youth of about the age of my companions. Though we were in the midst of winter, his face was beaded with sweat, as though from violent and long-continued exertion. From his deep breathing I concluded that he had been running. His presence could not but

1 Manuka = the tea-tree scrub.

page 309have been observed by the others, yet not a word in reference to it escaped them. Even when, on catching sight of us, the stranger hurried down the bank, slipped into his canoe, and suffered it to be borne rapidly away down the stream, they still continued to ignore his existence. So little was this in keeping with native character and custom, that a feeling of uneasiness, if not of actual suspicion, arose in my mind.

"Is it a ghost that passes us in the daylight?" I asked, "that we neither see him nor call to him in greeting?"

Hone hung his head and murmured something to the effect that the stranger was but a youth of no importance, and driving the nose of the canoe into the mud he stepped lightly ashore.

"It would have been better, Hone," I continued, "if we also had started last night; then could our journey have been finished before nightfall."

"It is a difficult thing to come up the river in the darkness," said Hone.

"Yet what one man may accomplish, three should have no difficulty in doing," I answered significantly.

He looked all ways and was silent.

With a word of farewell to the boatman, whose evident eagerness to be gone was due, I had no doubt, to a desire to overtake and enjoy the companionship of the man we had just seen, I joined Hone on the track, and we set off briskly on our way.

I had no fear that any harm was intended me. Yet as I brought together the incidents of the night and morning, I could not avoid a feeling of disquietude. Not only had Ihaka sent a message in haste some time during the night, but he had delayed my departure with excuses in order that the person he addressed might have time to act upon his information. Would he have gone to all these pains merely to announce to some wayside village the coming of page 310a guest? Then the secrecy with which the thing had been managed—only failing of completeness by the odd chance that the return of the messenger to the landing should coincide with the arrival of our canoe—was not calculated to reassure me. However, as I knew of no other track than the one we were pursuing, there was no help for it but to proceed on my way and trust to my wits to avert any difficulty when it actually obtruded itself.

For an hour and more all went well. We had ascended from the watershed of the Piako to an elevation which gave us a view of the mightier Waikato, urging its silvery stream to the Tasman Sea. The air was crystal clear. Bathed in golden sunshine, every height and hollow seemed to render up its secrets and convey to the heart a message of peace. Immediately before us the track fell away through fern to a little arm of bush, which, climbing from the valley, crossed it at that point and, as if exhausted with the effort, dwindled again into a scrub of veronica and tea tree. Descending the narrow, overgrown track with Hone in the rear, I crossed the flat and entered the little bush. It was probably less than a hundred yards from side to side, but, as is the way with native trails, it pursued a sinuous course through the growth, so that but a yard or so of the way was visible ahead of me.

I had traversed some half the distance when the absence of any sound in my rear caused me to turn to look for my companion. He was not in sight. I waited a while, listening. Neither rustle of leaf nor snap of twig broke the silence. Yet as I stood there, wondering and impatient at the delay, an idea—an instinct—rose up in my mind that I was not alone.

Scarcely had the suspicion time to frame itself, ere the thickets parted on every hand, and a body of natives came silently out on to the track and surrounded me.