Accordingly, after having made preparations for my departure, I took leave of all my friends at the Bay of Islands, both civilised and savage. I must say I felt considerable regret when I found myself really going to take final leave of several native families, with whom I had been on terms of intimacy since my residence here, from whom I had received many proofs of personal regard, and whom, I felt convinced, I should never meet or hear of more; none I regretted parting with more than the family of poor Shulitea; the mere sight of me seemed to rekindle all their grief for the loss of their kinsman, and to remind them more forcibly than ever of his tragical fate. His mother, old Turero, in point of grief, had rivalled Niobe; she had never ceased weeping and lamenting from the time she heard of her son's death, and had twice attempted to strangle herself. But even in the midst of her passionate sorrow, I could scarcely refrain from laughing, while observing her care and anxiety to get all she could from me. After deploring the sad fate of her dear son, "You know," she continued, "you promised him that you would send him a handsome new musket from Sydney; and now, poor fellow, he is dead; and cannot shoot with it; but then you must remember that his brother Kiney Kiney is still alive, and he can shoot with it; and poor George would wish that his brother should have his new musket." This speech I felt quite irresistible; therefore, in order to comfort the old queen, I promised that I would send the musket for her second son; which declaration seemed to afford her great consolation, and considerably abated the violence of her grief.