We hove to off the place indicated, and lowered our boat, taking the convict himself as our pilot. He shook hands heartily with everybody, seeming neither elated nor despondent, but self-collected and impassible as he always was. He took with him nothing but an old musket and some ammunition which the old man had given him. We rounded a point of rocks and pulled a short distance into the bay, when two Maories, on an elevation a short distance from us, hailed us, at the same time bringing their muskets up to the shoulder. We ceased pulling and lay on our oars. The convict rose and answered them in their own dialect, seeming to speak it quite fluently. They answered again, and a short conference seemed to produce satisfactory results, for they lowered their guns and descended the hill towards us, after giving a louder shout than any before, to which we could hear a responsive yell from voices further up the bay. "They'll pass the word all the way over those mountains," said our cool and ready companion. "There's a chain of sentinels and pickets on every hill. It's all right; these fellows know me well. Lay right in for that flat rock, and I'll land there." We did so; he jumped out on the ledge of rock, and with a single "good-by" to us, he rushed up to meet the two natives half-way. They seemed to greet each other as former acquaintances might, and the three disappeared over the brow of the hill together, as we pulled out at the mouth of the bay. This was the last that any one of us ever saw of our "government man;" but some two years afterwards, I read, by accident, in a Sydney newspaper, an account of a smart and bloody skirmish between the English troops and the Maori tribes, and among the slain had been found the body of a white man, tattooed in the face like a chief of rank, and it was recognized as that of a desperado long known in the colonial settlements as Galway Mike. Thus read the statement in the Gazette, and this is all I know of his history.