Punctually at twelve o’clock the old “tohunga” came over the hill. He was a tall man, grey-headed and handsome, and in his full robes of office he looked imposing enough. Halting at a short distance he called us to come forth. I started forward to expostulate, but he waved me sternly back. “Approach not,” he commanded. “You are unclean, you have incurred the anger of the great spirits. Yet will I intercede, and it may be purge you of the offence. Now, therefore, bring out your ‘taonga’ (goods) and everything that you have touched, in order that I may destroy it and the purging be complete.” This was beyond a joke. Give up my household goods and knick-knacks to be burnt? Never! I’d see him hanged first. “Be off, you old scallywag!” I shouted. “Give you my things, indeed!” And I began to tell him what I thought about it. He stood impassive, inexorable. “Young man,” he answered, “be not mad. Fool! Can you fight the spirits? Look to your servant. Delay not, lest he die.” This was unanswerable. I surrendered, and we carried the things out, Puketawa moving as though in a mesmeric dream. All my bachelor treasures, bedding, rugs, chairs, cooking-pots, and crockery--everything went. The pots and crockery he smashed with his tomahawk, the house and all else he burnt to ashes. Luckily, I had not been near the store, or that and its contents would have gone too. What next, I wondered? Had the old heathen done with us? Evidently not. “Remove your clothing,” he commanded. Here was a pretty state of things! Being naturally of a modest disposition, I demurred, at which he lost his temper. “Hinder me not,” he cried. “Your life or death is naught to me. Beware, lest I depart and leave you to your fate.” There was nothing for it but to comply. So, whilst our clothes were burning, Puketawa and I stood before him naked and unashamed. Down to the creek, to the pool beneath the waterfall, the old priest drove us. The stream was full of snow-water from the mountains, and bitterly cold. “Enter,” he ordered. “Needs must when the devil drives,” and with a gulp we plunged in and stood shivering up to our necks, while for ten interminable minutes the old fellow chanted prayers and wove his “karakia” (spells) on the bank. [Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S STORE ON THE BANKS OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER. _From a Photograph._] At last it was over. We climbed out, and the “tohunga” sprinkled each of us, separately and solemnly, with a fern frond dipped in the water of the pool. “It is enough,” he said. “The ‘tapu’ is lifted,” and walked away.