With a gasp of horror George ran for all he was worth. If at this last moment Paeroa, the faithful Paeroa, should be—— The dreadful thought was lost in the rush.
Already Paeroa was overpowered, his weak state allowing him no possible chance against his stalwart foes. Utterly unmindful of the British principle of sympathy for the under dog, two Arawas held him by the arms, another grasped his long hair, pulling his head backwards, while a fourth, with raised club, was about to dash out his brains.
But with a rush George was among them and, ignoring ceremony, struck right and left with his fists, upsetting the would-be slayer and those who held Paeroa as well. Without an instant's delay Paeroa scuttled into the bush, pending the adjustment of the dispute.
'Pardon, friends!' George said apologetically, turning his glance upon two who stood ruefully rubbing their swollen noses. 'You were about to kill the wrong man. That is Paeroa, who brought word of my captivity.'
'And you are Hortoni?' queried a thin, lithe man who was evidently in command. None of the Arawas seemed either surprised or resentful.
'It is so,' replied George. 'I have just escaped with Mura, Kawainga, and Paeroa from the nest of the Hawk.'
'Mura! If you mean Tereni, he was slain after the fight at Paparatu,' said the Arawa chief.
'No; he is here,' corrected George. 'Te Karearea meant to kill him that night, but I came up in time to——'
'To stop them from shoving me through the gates of Reinga,' put in Terence, bobbing up from the fern and airing his broken Maori. 'I am very much alive, I assure you, Chief.' The Arawa leader and he grinned cheerfully at one another.
'Don't you remember me?' went on Terence. 'You are Te Ingoa, who imitated the Hau-hau cry that night at our bivouac.'