He had heard the black horse neigh, and was looking round for his favourite. "They will seize him!" he muttered between his set teeth. "Why will you bring him here?"
"Come along with us," answered Edwin quickly, "and we will go back as fast as we can."
But the friendly ruse did not succeed.
"I'll guide you to the road, but not a step beyond it. Shall men say I fled in terror from the sound of clubs—a son of Hepé?" exclaimed Whero. "Should I listen to the women's fears?"
"All very fine," retorted Edwin. "If I had a mother, Whero, I'd listen to what she said, and I'd do as she asked me, if all the world laughed. They might call me a coward and a jackass as often as they liked, what would I care? Shouldn't I know in my heart I had done right?"
"Have not you a mother?" said Whero.
Edwin's "No" was scarcely audible, but it touched the Maori boy. He buried his face on the horse's shoulder, then suddenly lifting it up with a defiant toss, he asked, "Would you be faithless and desert her if she prayed you to do it?"
This was a home-thrust; but Edwin was not to be driven from his position.
"Well," he retorted, "even then I should say to myself, 'Perhaps she knows best.'"
He had made an impression, and he had the good sense not to prolong the argument.