And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don.
“My pakeha,” he said softly, “morning.”
There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud.
But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face.
“Hah!” cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. “My pakeha, morning. Want eat?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Jem, eagerly.
“Yes, yes,” said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, “No, no,” in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. “Want Tomati. Tomati—”
He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don.
“Tomati dead,” he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened.
“Dead,” he said; “Tomati dead—dead—all—dead.”