One night about twelve o'clock he opened his eyes and glared at an attendant standing near his bunk. Then, without a moment's warning, he sprang up and grabbed the attendant by the throat yelling at the top of his voice, "Py Hori, you bally ole nigger Wiremu, I catch you t'this time." With some trouble he was put back to bed again, and relapsed into unconsciousness.
The next time he awoke, a pretty little French nurse, Marie Bouvard, was sitting by and watching him. She was just a slim little thing, more like a girl of seventeen than a woman of twenty-one. She was a born nurse, her very presence always did the sufferers good. Her voice was soft and healing, her touch was gentle and sympathetic, [pg 18] and her footsteps were like the falling of the snow.
When Marie smiled she was at her best, for her solemn little face brightened up like a sudden burst of sunshine on the flowers.
Henare watched her calmly for some time without moving, then he closed his eyes, and the man in the next bed heard him murmur,—
"Py ... korry, Py ... korry, I tink I got to Heaven at lars ... t'that the angel face all right ... you bet."
It is not surprising that under the care of a nurse like the little French Marie, the Maori hero gradually recovered. When he had reached a certain stage of recovery, he did not appear to be particularly anxious to progress any further. Most of Marie's patients felt like that. It meant parting [pg 19] with the charming little nurse, and they dreaded it.
Henare was no exception, though, be it said, Kiri was never far from his thoughts. But Marie simply fascinated him, and really the nurse herself became very much attached to the noble brown boy from England's far off Maoriland. He had been such a splendid patient, and such a grand "case" too.
As time went on, during Henare's convalescence, he and Marie became at least very good friends, and always enjoyed one another's company, and whatever conversation it was possible for them to have, with Anglo-French and pidgin-Maori as the medium.