Four years afterwards, a solitary English traveller, named Chalton, was standing in the centre of a wide district, near to where the last-mentioned guests had spent a summer night in 1839. He was apparently in search of some locality, and two chiefs were closely watching him. A couple of Wesleyan natives were not far off. They were assisting him in making a survey for a road.
“There used to be a hut on that hill in the distance,” said he to one of the chiefs.
“King Thierry’s hut,” answered both the chiefs at once.
“True,” rejoined the inquirer; “why is it no longer there?”
“Zealanders’ gods are not sleeping,” replied one of the chiefs. “Thierry and his priests were cruel to his people. The island spirits told us, in our dreams, to punish him. We burned the hut down last moon.”
“And Thierry and his wife?” asked the astounded engineer.
“The good lady perished in the flames. The people from the other side of the island saved King Thierry.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Chalton, partly relieved; “what are they going to do with him?”
“Oh, nothing!” cried the chiefs, somewhat eagerly.