"Father," echoed Mr. Hirpington, "is safe, safe at home; and we will follow him there as soon as I get rid of these troublesome guests."
"Sit down, boy, if you do not mind the mud and cold. Sit down and eat," said Dunter kindly. He opened the kitchen cupboard, and pointed to some biscuits and cheese which he had reserved for their own supper. "It is all they have left us," he sighed. "We have fed them a whole day just to keep the Queen's peace. We thought they would eat us up when they marched down on us, clamouring for you and the bag you had stolen from Nga-Hepé and hidden in our hayloft. But master is up to 'em. 'Well,' says he, 'if the bag has ever been in my hay-loft, it is there still; and if it is there, we'll find it. Pull the loft down. Clear out every stick and stone that is left of my stables, an' welcome.' You see, it must all be cleared down before we could begin to build up again," added Dunter, confidentially.
"It was a happy thought," said Mr. Hirpington, rubbing his hands, "and it took. I ran myself to set the example, and knocked over the shaky door-post, and then the work of demolition went forward with a will. Nothing like a good spell of hard work to cool a man down. Of course they did not find the bag. But Nga-Hepé's neighbours have found so many old nails and hooks and hinges they have stuck to their task; they are at it yet, but the dusk will disperse them. Their excuse is gone. Still," he went on, "'all is well that ends well.' You might have found the place a smouldering ash-heap. We know their Maori ways when they mean to dislodge an English settler. They come as they came last night, set fire to his house, pull up his fences, and plough up his fields. The mud preserved me from anything of that sort beginning unawares. Nothing would burn. We have picked up more than one charred stick, so they had a try at it; and as for the fences, they are all buried. When the coast is clear you and I must prepare for a starlight walk through the bush to your father's farm."
"Will they molest father?" asked Edwin anxiously.
"No, no," answered both in a breath. "Your father's farm is on the other side of the river, not on Hau-Hau ground. It belonged to another tribe, the Arewas, who are 'friendless,' as we say. We told you your father was safe if we could but get him home. And so am I," continued Mr. Hirpington, "for I can always manage my neighbours and appreciate them too; for they are men at heart, and we like each other. And there is a vein of honour in Nga-Hepé and his son according to their light which you may safely trust, yet they are not civilized Englishmen."
"But Whero will be—" Edwin began; but his bright anticipations for the future of his Maori friend were cut short by a strange, unearthly sound—a wild, monotonous chant which suddenly filled the air. As the dusk fell around them, the Maoris still sitting over Marileha'a supper had begun to sing to drive away the fairies, which they imagine are in every dancing leaf and twittering bird. Then, one by one, the canoes which had brought them there began to fill, and as the swarthy faces disappeared, silence and loneliness crept over the dismantled ford.
Nga-Hepé proved his friend's assertions true, for Beauty was honourably returned. They found him tied by the bridle to the only post on the premises which had been left standing. Perhaps it had been spared for the purpose. The gun was loaded, such wraps as Dunter could get together were all put on, and Edwin and Mr. Hirpington started. The first step was not a pleasant one—a plunge into the icy river and a scramble up the opposite bank, from which even Beauty seemed to shrink. But the gallop over the frosty ground which succeeded took off the comfortless chill and dried their draggled coats. Mr. Hirpington got down and walked by Beauty's head, as they felt the gradual descent beginning, and heard the splash of the rivulet against the stones, and saw the bright lights from Edwin's home gleam through the evening shadows. A scant half-hour that almost seemed a year in its reluctance to slip away, a few more paces, and Beauty drew up at the gateless enclosure. A bar thrown across kept them outside. A gleeful shout, a thunderous rain of blows upon the bar, and the impatient stamping of Beauty's feet brought Cuthbert and Arthur Bowen almost tumbling over one another to receive them. The welcome sound of the hammer, the stir and movement all about the place, told Edwin that the good work of restoration had already begun. The bar went down with a thud. It was Cuthbert, in his over-joy at seeing his brother, who had banged it to the ground. The noise brought out the captain.
"It is a short journey to Christchurch," exclaimed Cuthbert. "How many miles?"
"I'm in no mood for arithmetic," retorted Edwin, bounding up the remnant of a path beside the captain, with Cuthbert grasping him by the other hand. Arthur Bowen took Beauty by the bridle.
"I'll see after him," said Mr. Hirpington.