'Oh, we will do all things as they ought to be done, and follow the rules of war. You come by night into our camp, pretending to take us for "friendlies," and endeavour to worm information out of us. Thus you are proved a spy. It is the custom of civilised nations at war to hang spies. Good! We will hang you, and so escape the vengeance of the Pakeha.' His saturnine chuckle was echoed by the chiefs who stood in a semi-circle about the prisoner. The unhappy soldier looked round despairingly. What hope was there for him? Before him a crescent of stern-faced men, and all about him men of the same colour, with faces yet more fierce and horrid. For the rank and file had gathered to hear the last of the discussion--to see the last of the Pakeha. At a sign from Winata Pakaro two grim-visaged warriors stepped forward with a rope, one end of which they cast over the stout limb of a great tree. The other end, which was noosed, they slipped over the head of the prisoner, who, pale as death, but erect and brave, gave them back glance for glance. He was a soldier, and he would not show the despair he felt to these enemies of his flag. 'I warn you that a terrible vengeance will be taken if you murder me,' he said boldly. A derisive yell arose among the bystanders, and at a covert sign one of the executioners drew the rope taut, handing the loose end to the other. The miserable messenger gave up hope. He was brave, and he did not mean to go out of the world like a craven. But it was hard, for he was young and strong, and life glowed in his veins. He cast an agonised glance around, but only savage, grinning faces met his eyes. He closed them, murmuring a prayer, when a shout, not far off, struck his tense nerves with such a shock that they quivered, like harp-strings suddenly smitten, and for the first time he trembled--not with fear, but with hope. Again that shout, loud and insistent, crying something in Maori which he could not understand. Yet when he heard it, he trembled all the more, for there was something in the voice which rang familiar in his ears. Yet how could that be? Once more the frantic appeal: '_Kei whakamate ia koe!_--Do not kill him! Do not kill him!' Stamping footsteps, crushing down the rustling fern--nearer, louder, furious at the feeble opposition. And at last a man, panting, sobbing for breath, burst into the open space illumined by the bivouac fire, gasping as he came his ever-recurring '_Kei whakamate ia koe!_' For one instant the soldier stared, incredulous. He seemed paralysed. His eyes started from his head. His limbs shook under him. Suddenly he felt the tightening noose, stiffened, caught at a hasty breath, and spent it in a quavering shriek: '_George! Quick! They're murdering me!_'