“Simply, sir,” answered the unabashed trooper, “that their assertions are neither complimentary nor truthful, as if I was his Satanic Majesty I could find more congenial employment than being a trooper, and as for frightening them, I assure you, sir, I never moved from the moment I sat down.” Again the O.C. interpreted to the still trembling natives, and again an eloquent speech from one of them, at the end of which the Colonel, turning to Limbs, said: “Sit down at once in the same manner you seated yourself in the hut.” [Illustration: DESPATCH RIDING.] His Grace, looking if possible more doleful than ever, sank down on his hams, crossing his feet behind his head, so that one foot stuck out on either side of it, and then crossed his hands, still holding his carbine in front of him, while with mournful eyes looking at his commandant he said, “I always sit like this, sir, when resting.” At once the Maoris yelled and tried to push their way through the grinning troopers who hemmed them in, while the astonished O.C., who by the way had never seen a circus in his life, threw himself back in his chair and gasped. “Sit down like that when you want to rest, do you? Then, in the name of all that is righteous, how do you recline when you want to sleep?” Without a word, and seemingly without an effort, the noble Duke gave himself a twist and in the snap of a cap reversed himself so that he stood on his feet, with his western parts elevated in the air and his long, melancholic face upside down framed between his legs. This transformation scene was greeted by another yell from the Maoris, while the perplexed O.C., opening eyes and mouth, ejaculated: “Well, I am damned. For God’s sake, man, get straight if you can,” and then aside, “I wonder what in hades he will look like when he’s dead.” For in a moment a respectable, if sorrowful-looking, trooper was standing rigidly to attention before him. “Well,” continued the Commandant, “I can’t punish the natives, that’s clear, nor can a camp be alarmed for nothing, so, Mr Burke, be good enough to see this man does nine days’ pack drill, and if that does not keep him straight then lash a spare tent pole up and down his back bone--I fancy that will fix him; and now, sergeant-major, relieve this tired sentry, let the prisoners be taken back to the hut. Fall away, men; come, gentlemen, let us finish our work.” CHAPTER XII THE YEAR OF THE LAMB During the latter part of 1866 and the early part of 1867 the war on the west coast of New Zealand languished; Colonel McDonnell had for a time been sent over to the east coast and had straightened things out at Rotorua, while we who remained behind marked time. The truth being we had no men to take the field with.