But the chief was aware that, for all their calm exterior, fear--that worst fear of all, fear of the unknown--tugged at his children's hearts, and he had no intention of trying them too far. So at his word the huge _tetere_ brayed, "in sound," says Tasman, "like a Moorish trumpet," the Maori shouted, splashing the water with their paddles, but giving no hostile challenge, and the sailors crowded their bulwarks, making signs of amity and displaying attractive articles to the brown men. But twilight was fading now, and the chief hastened ashore to see his _hapu_ safely housed, and to set a guard, lest these queer white fellows should land during the night. The _tetere_ brayed again an unmusical "Lights out!" and with a great clamour of tongues the Maori withdrew behind their stockade to discuss the most surprising event of their lives. Then the day died and the curtain of night came heavily down, to rise upon the tragedy of the morning. IV The day was not far advanced when a single, small canoe rapidly approached the ships, where officers and men ran eagerly to the rail to observe the oncoming Maori. But Abel Tasman knew nothing of the addiction of the Sons of Maui to forms and ceremonies, nor did the latter allow for their visitor's ignorance. Consequently, there arose at the very outset a misunderstanding, which was to bring about fatal consequences. One of the thirteen occupants of the canoe must have been the herald,[53] come to announce that his chief would immediately visit the strangers. The rowers lay on their oars within easy distance of the _Heemskirk_, while the envoy delivered his message. Making no attempt to discover the Maori's meaning, the Dutchmen rather stupidly "kept up a great shouting throughout his oration," while they displayed food, drink and trinkets to the admiring eyes of the rowers, who were sorely tempted to take risks and clamber aboard. But loyalty to their chief restrained them, and with dignified gestures and in musical speech they signified their regret at being obliged to decline the Pakeha's invitation. Then, conceiving their message understood, they paddled back to the shore, much to the disappointment of the Dutchmen. No sooner did the solitary canoe swing away from the ship than seven others put off from the shore. As they drew near, six of them slackened speed, while one came on confidently to the _Heemskirk_. After a momentary hesitation, half-a-dozen Maori clambered up the side with, according to Tasman, "fear writ upon their faces." This is probable; for here was a clear case of _omne ignotum pro magnifico_; but that these were brave men is proved by the fact that, "with fear writ upon their faces," they showed a bold front to the cause of that fear, and boarded the _Heemskirk_. Scarcely had the feet of the brown men touched the deck than Tasman seems to have taken fright and, as far as one may judge, lost his head and committed a deplorable error. [Illustration: The fight in Massacre Bay]