'Say rather, who will not hear my word?' Te Karearea drew himself up proudly. 'Waikato and Ngatiawa shall hear and flock to my standard. Taranaki and Wanganui shall lift the spear and shake the tomahawk. Taupo and Ngaiterangi, Whakatoea and Ngatiporou, Ngatiapa and Ngatihau[1]--all these and more shall hear and come with club and gun. But Arawa, the accursed, shall be deaf, and them and the Pakehas shall my legions smite and slay until the land which has been ours since Maui drew it forth from the sea, is ours once again. Behold! I, Te Karearea, have sworn it.' [1] All the Maori tribes named above were in arms against the British at one time or another during the wars. The Arawas were friendly. The sonorous cadence of vowels rolled out into the night, and George, to his surprise, felt a passing throb of sympathy for this uncrowned king. After all, the land had originally--and not so long ago--belonged to the Maori; nor could the Pakeha be said to be altogether clean-handed in the matter. It was a fleeting mood; but it sufficed to induce George to let the chief down gently, and to refrain from further argument. Just then the rapid beat of a horse's hoofs was heard, and Te Karearea, with a word of excuse to George, ran back to the sentry they had just passed, whispered an order, and at once rejoined his guest, as he was pleased to style his paroled prisoner. 'During the afternoon I learned that the captain of the force opposed to me sent to Turanga for reinforcements,' he began, smiling. 'This, in all probability, is the messenger returning. I am going to catch him.' 'But,' objected George, 'if the messenger recognise that the sentry is not a "friendly," he will bolt, and then your man will certainly shoot him.' 'It takes some education for a Pakeha to distinguish, let us say, Arawa from Ngatiawa,' said Te Karearea reassuringly. 'No; there will be no difficulty--of that sort.' He paused to whisper instructions to a sentry on the inner ring, and George, glancing back, saw that the messenger was slowly walking his tired horse towards the picket. 'I must ask you to retire, Hortoni,' said Te Karearea courteously. 'I must examine this man, and----' 'Oh, quite so,' agreed George. 'The poor beggar little dreams what is in store for him. When your interrogation is at an end, turn him over to me, and I will do my best to console him.' He nodded to the chief and turned his back upon the bivouac, thinking as he went of the grim jest which Fate was about to play upon the unlucky messenger. Hoping to get a bit of news on his own account, George strolled towards the outer picket, and in course of time was challenged by the sentry in the strictly orthodox manner: 'Halt! Who goes there?' George explained, and handed the sentry a plug of tobacco, off which the Maori promptly bit a piece. But he was a surly fellow, and gave a gruff negative when asked if he happened to know anything of the Pakeha who had ridden into the camp.