All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don’s shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen.
But he grasped the chief’s idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong.
Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not—as Don expected—to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and once more they hurried on straight for the river.
It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands.
But that was evidently not Ngati’s intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood.
While Don listened, it sounded to him as if the Maoris were literally hunting them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from where they were, capture was absolutely certain.
As they stood panting there, Ngati caught Don’s hand, and tightened it round the spear, following this up by the same action with Jem.
“He means we are to hold tight, Jem.”
“Is he going to take us across this tumbling river, Mas’ Don?”
“It seems so.”