So utterly unexpected was the attack, that Sounding Sea went down with a yell of terror; but, quickly recognising his adversary, he began to wriggle and twist, clawing and spitting like an angry cat. But he could do nothing against such a stalwart as George, and Terence, confident of this, busied himself in cutting the bonds of the captives and gently chafing their swollen joints, while he smiled into their wan faces, and spoke hopefully in a language they did not understand of the good time coming for them. But hope is translatable into any tongue, and, as Terence chatted on, the dull eyes brightened and a responsive grin overspread Paeroa's drawn face, while Kawainga's lips quivered, and she burst into happy, soothing tears. This was too much for Terence. His alluring smile vanished, and he rose and solemnly punched the head of Sounding Sea. 'I don't often hit a man when he is down,' he remarked, returning to his patients; 'but you deserve a taste of your own sauce.' 'Quite right,' agreed George. 'Wait here, Terence, while I get my flask. When I return, we can settle what to do.' He was back in a very short time, and the flask, which he had not opened since he left Sydney, came in usefully now; for the strong spirit, dashed with water, soon restored Paeroa and Kawainga, who sat up and began to talk. 'I did what I could, Hortoni,' Paeroa said sadly. 'Had you met me by the fork that day all would have been well. As it is, I have still one word of the white-haired chief to you. Te Karearea took the other. Here it is.' Like all the Hau-haus, he wore his hair long, and now he pulled from the tangled locks a soiled piece of paper, which he held out to George, who took it and read aloud: 'We ar~ on your t~ack. Try ~~~~~~scape ~nd meet us. Y~~rs--M. Cra~sto~n.' Here and there the pencilled letters were obliterated; but the meaning was clear enough. The question was--had Te Karearea driven back, or annihilated the relief force? And this, of course, Paeroa could not tell. 'I wonder what was in the note which Te Karearea took,' said George. 'Paeroa has made a mistake,' commented Terence. 'Colonel Cranstoun is not white-haired, unless he has changed since I saw him.' 'Well, there is no use worrying over a mistake,' said George. 'Oh, of course not,' agreed Terence, looking curiously at his friend. He had his own idea as to the identity of the writer of the missing note, and thought that George's ignorance was bliss, in so far as it saved him from much anxiety.