"Will not Te Rangitake listen to Wiremu Thompson and to Tamati Ngapora?" said Mr. Mannering. "Their word is not for war. Trade is better than fighting, better than too much land." "He would listen, perhaps, but the people of the tribe will not. Then there is the King business to bring more trouble. If the Waikato join the Ngatihaua, it will be such a war as we have not seen yet." "And the Ngapuhi?" asked Massinger, almost wondering at his own temerity. "The Ngapuhi," replied the chief, with stately dignity, "fought for the English through the war of Honi-Heke; they fought with the Rarawas against the Ngati maniapoto and the Waikato. They will do so now. You have the writing of Waka Nene?" He produced the paper. A grave smile overspread the tattooed countenance as he spoke rapidly for some minutes in the native tongue to Mr. Mannering, who replied in the same language; then, saluting both in a farewell manner, he departed towards the spot where a concourse of natives of both sexes stood or sat amid the whares of the kainga. "What did he say to you?" inquired Massinger. "Did it relate to me in any way?" "Yes; it was only that it would be a good thing for you to keep that bit of paper. No one could tell now what was going to happen. He thought it well that you should leave in the timber vessel. I am of the same opinion, or we should not let you go just yet, I promise you." Then they strolled homewards. The declining sun was lighting up the green meadows, in which women were working in the kumera patches; the broad reach of the river, on which canoes were gliding smoothly in the half light; the grim pah, with its palisades and trenches, looking down upon the peaceful scene which, to all appearance, was fixed in Arcadian serenity. Was it fated to resound with the war-cries of hostile tribes in the coming campaign? Was the tomahawk, the club, the musket, of a ruthless foe to work war's worst horrors upon this simple industrious community of nature's children?