We must now return to the struggle on the brink of the precipice. With the energy of despair, Anthony Bray sought to grapple with his enemy, when the threatening weapon was withdrawn, and a harsh voice, with surprise in its tones, gave utterance to his name.
“What, Wahika!” exclaimed Bray joyfully; and he gazed with wonder in the blue-tinted tattooed face of one of the natives, who had often been upon his premises.
“Thought killed. Men come from sea kill all, and come kill him again for kill you.”
“You thought I was one of the men?”
The New Zealander nodded.
“Where go to now? Come back pah?”
“No, no!” exclaimed Bray, as a bright thought struck him. “I want to go over the hill to the Moa’s Nest. You can show me the best way.”
“Much hard work; but Wahika show;” and, without another word, he plunged down again, with Bray following for a little distance; but, under the impression that the native had misunderstood him in his imperfect knowledge of the tongue, he called to him to stop, and pointed upwards.
The savage smiled at his eagerness, and shook his head, and pointed downward, then drew an imaginary line to the right, and then another, which led in the direction of the hill-top.
Bray nodded, and followed without another word; when, after a few turns and doublings, the guide hit upon the bed of a good-sized stream, and, first on one side, then on the other, led his companion up and up, at a rate which inspired him with the hope that he might even yet be in time. Higher and higher they climbed now, passing in among the trees at the side, and anon climbing over some huge block which arrested their progress, when the guide would stretch out a helping hand, or in some other way assist his less active and panting companion.