'They will eat the oyster and throw away the shell; that's all I know,' he growled, his answer showing that he came from the coast. 'Meaning, I suppose, that they will turn him out of the camp when they have learned all that he has to tell,' commented George. 'I should like a word with him before he goes. I wonder if he will come this way.' '_Whakatore Atua!_' (the gods forbid) ejaculated the sentry, with a nervous glance over his shoulder. 'Let him take another road to Reinga. I want no ghosts on my beat.' 'Ghosts? Reinga?' echoed George amazed. And then, as the full significance of the Maori's words came home to him, he turned and sped like the wind towards the bivouac, a prayer in his heart that he might reach it in time. Meanwhile the messenger, a sturdy young fellow in the orthodox red coat of the service, had led his horse to the bivouac of the head chiefs. 'I have come to the wrong place, it seems,' he said cheerfully, little imagining how true were his words. 'It is Captain Westrupp's bivouac I'm after. Well, boys, I suppose you licked those rascals?' 'Yes; we licked them,' answered Winata Pakaro in fluent English, while his leader remained unobtrusively in the background. 'They are now in full retreat.' 'Hurrah! Well, I must hunt up the captain. Where is his bivouac?' He cast a longing eye upon the cold viands, scattered about. 'Nay; sit and eat,' invited Winata Pakaro. 'You need food after your long ride. The captain is not in the camp, nor is it likely that he will return to-night.' 'Oh, in that case, here goes'; and the young soldier sat down and ate with appetite, while Winata Pakaro pumped him dry of information as to the number and disposal of the British and Colonial troops. The meal and the interrogation ended together. 'Thank you, boys; you are the real old sort,' said the messenger gratefully. 'Now tell me where my mates are camped. It is odd that none of them are about; but I suppose they are all dog-tired.' He turned to go, smiling at them; but at a sign from Winata his arms were pinioned, and while a couple of Maoris held him in a firm grip, a third lashed his ankles together. He was very strong, that was evident; but he was intelligent too, and did not waste his strength in useless struggles. 'You crafty demons!' he snarled at them. 'You are Te Karearea's men.' 'Yes,' admitted Winata Pakaro,' and we are also brothers of the men who died to-day. So there is a blood-feud, and, as we have you, you must die.' 'You will not dare to kill a prisoner of war.'