“My pakeha! My pakeha!”
“Why, it’s Ngati!” whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him.
The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don’s hand was seized, and held firmly.
“It’s Ngati, Jem,” whispered Don, “come to help us.”
“Good luck to him!” said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way.
His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,—
“My pakeha. Come.”
“Yes; we want to come,” whispered Don.
“Tomati. Gone,” came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue.
Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word.