John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson’s shoulders, frequently reconnoitered the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the watchful sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.
But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men, women, and children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the “pah,” silent and calm.
Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the level, in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half circle some distance off, in dead silence.
At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward Ware-Atoua.
“Remember,” said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan pressed her to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and said hurriedly:
“Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may claim death at her husband’s hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed wife may claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?”
“Mary!” cried the young captain in his despair. “Ah! dear Mary—”
The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the two women were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings with superhuman effort.
They arrived in the presence of the Maori chief.
“You killed Kara-Tete,” said he to Glenarvan.