When the Ngati Kuri sailed on their last and fated expedition to the south, a huge Taniwha, attached to the famous warrior, Tiki Whenua, accompanied the expedition, playing about continually amongst the canoes, often coming close to the canoe of Tiki Whenua, so that the warrior could reach to pat him approvingly with his paddle, at which he seemed much pleased; and when they came in sight of the island of Tuhua, this Taniwha chief called up the legions of the deep! The sea was blackened by an army of monsters, who, with uncouth and awful floundering and wallowing, performed before the chief and his companions a hideous _tu ngarahu_, and then disappeared. The Ngati Kuri, elated, and accepting this as a presage of victory, landed on Tuhua, stormed the pa, and massacred its defenders. But they had mistaken the meaning of the monster review of the Taniwha. It was a leave-taking of his favourite warrior, for the Ngati Kuri were fated to die to a man on the next land they trod. A hundred and fifty men were they--the pick and prime of their tribe. All _rangatira_, all warriors of name, few in numbers, but desperately resolute, they thought it little to defeat the thousands of the south, and take the women and children as a prey! Having feasted and rejoiced at Tuhua, they sail for Motiti. This world was too small for them. They were impatient for battle. They thought to make the name of Kuri strike against the skies; but in the morning the sea is covered with war canoes. The thousands of the south are upon them! Ngati Awa, with many an allied band, mad for revenge, come on. Fight now, oh Ngati Kuri!--not for _victory_, no, nor for _life_. Think only now of _utu_!--for your time is come. That which you have dealt to many, you shall now receive. Fight!--fight! Your tribe shall be exterminated, but you must leave a name! Now came the tug of war on "bare Motiti." From early morning till the sun had well declined, that ruthless battle raged. Twice their own number had the Ngati Kuri slain; and then Tiki Whenua, still living, saw around him his dead and dying tribe. A handful of bleeding warriors still resisted--a last and momentary struggle. He thought of the _utu_; it was great. He thought of the ruined remnant of the tribe at home, and then he remembered--horrid thought!--that ere next day's setting sun, he and all the warriors of his tribe would be baked and eaten. (Tiki, my friend, thou art in trouble.) A cannon was close at hand--a nine-pound carronade. They had brought it in the canoes. Hurriedly he filled it half full of powder, seized a long firebrand, placed his breast to the cannon's mouth, fired with his own hand. Tiki Whenua, Good night!