Satisfying himself that there was no one in sight and that he was not followed, the soldier squatted down again and smoked his pipe meditatively. Suddenly he started up and listened intently. He heard something, and any noise meant danger. The sound was the trotting of a horse. Scrambling through the fern a little space back from the bank, he found that a narrow track wound through the tangle of tall brown bracken. Peering out from his shelter place he saw--first, the glitter of the muzzle of a long rifle above the fern; then, next moment round a turn in the path came a mounted man, a Maori. He was a tall, black-bearded fellow, wearing a European shirt and trousers, but bare as to feet. Each stirrup-iron was thrust between the big toe and the next one, as was the universal Maori mode when riding bare-footed. In his right hand he held an Enfield rifle, of the pattern used by the white troops in those days; the butt rested on his thigh, cavalryman fashion. Round his shoulders hung a leather cartouche-box; there was another buckled round his waist, from which there hung also a revolver in its case. A Hauhau scout, evidently, venturing rather daringly close to the British camp. The white man hesitated only a moment. Then he boldly stepped out on to the track, directly in front of the startled Maori, who pulled his shaggy pony up sharp, and instantly presented his gun at the white man. Seeing the next moment, however, that the white man was unarmed and alone, the Maori brought his rifle-butt down on his leg again, and stared with wonder at the forlorn-looking white soldier before him. "Here, you _pakeha_!" he cried, in mixed English and Maori; "go back, quick! _Haere atu, haere atu!_ Go 'way back to t'e soldiers. I shoot you suppose you no go! _Hoki atu!_" "Shoot away!" returned the white man. "I won't go back. I'm running away from the soldiers. I want to go to the Maoris. Take me with you!" "_You tangata kuwaré_!" the Maori said. "You _pakeha_ fool, go back! T'e Maori kill you, my word! You look out." "I don't care if they do," replied the soldier. "I tell you, I want to live with the Hauhaus." "_E pai ana!_" ("It is well"), said the scout. "All right, you come along. But you look out for my tribe--they kill you." "I'm not frightened of your tribe," said the soldier. "What your name, _pakeha_?" was the next question. "Kimble Bent," answered the _pakeha_. The Maori attempted the pronunciation of the name, but the nearest he could get to it was "Kimara Peneti." "Too hard a name for t'e Maori," he said. "_Taihoa_; we give you more better name--good Maori name. If"--he qualified it--"my tribe don't kill you." Then the swarthy warrior dismounted and ordered the _pakeha_ to get into the saddle; he saw that his prisoner was dead-tired. He turned the horse's head back towards the Maori country, and the strangely-met pair struck down along the banks of the Tangahoé, the Maori striding in front.