He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea.
A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the pah.
As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there.
“Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas’ Don,” he whispered. “I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn’t that my skull’s made o’ the strongest stuff, it would ha’ been broken.”
“You had better not speak much, Jem,” said Don softly.
“No, my lad; I won’t. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn’t know water could push like that.”
“I expected to be swept away every moment.”
“I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I’m to be drownded, I don’t want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way.”
Don was silent.
“Mas’ Don.”