Again a weary wait, and just as we know breakfast ought to be ready the sky begins to lighten, and we can see the outline of the kainga. Surely in my impatience I may be forgiven for uttering the following prayer:--“O gods of war, ye who pass your days in fighting and your nights in feasting, listen to your humble votary. Hurry up Phœbus, the beggar’s slack to-day. Grant us only light enough, and we vow to fight like bricks and eat like heroes. Let us but get at our enemies and to our victuals.” The light comes slowly. Will the Colonel never give the word? His expectant bugler lies beside him, bugle to lip. The women inside the kainga call to the men: “Arise, the food is ready to be eaten,” and we hear the yawns and grunts of the warriors as they wake up from their natural slumber, some of them soon to be put to sleep again in a speedier and more permanent manner. There goes the trumpet, endorsed by a cheer from our over-willing men as with a rush we dash into the village. Here takes place the usual turmoil: screaming women and children rush for the bush; men, resisting and fighting desperately, are shot down, while others are driven out of the place in headlong flight. We do not pursue, but, with mouths watering, instinctively gather round the hangis. The women had stated that the food was cooked; we required no expert evidence, off came the earth-covered mats, when the steam of the luscious pork and spuds rose to still further tantalise the famished men. There was, however, no greedy scrambling. Starving we might be, but we were comrades in adversity and must fare and share alike. Squads of men fall in of their own accord, the food is rapidly distributed by the non-coms., and is more rapidly consumed by the hungry recipients. Then comes the turn of the officers, who, _noblesse oblige_, have had to wait, so as to make sure there was enough to feed the men before attending to their own wants. There was, however, no fear on this occasion of anyone going short, as one oven remained still unopened, and around this we eagerly clustered. Pierre presents himself with his huge knife, the food is served out, juniors, taking precedence, receive their allotments first, and I had just received mine, consisting of a lump of pork about the size of my fist, together with a dozen or so of potatoes, all steaming and piping hot, served up on a fragment of a Maori mat, and with ravenous eyes was watching the succulent mess cool sufficiently to devour, when bang, whizz, zip comes a flight of bullets whistling over our heads. “Damn,” said the Colonel. “Mr Burke, take thirty men and drive those blaggards back to perdition; it’s like their infernal cheek to interfere with gentlemen while breakfasting,” and the old fellow squared his shoulders and tucked in to his portion.