"What was that?" said Hypatia.
"One of the Maori women that came away from the Gate Pah said that when Colonel Booth was lying mortally wounded and perishing with thirst—for there was no water in the pah for the last two days—Henare stole out by night and passed through our lines, thereby risking his life, and brought back a calabash of water, which he placed by the side of the dying man. It was found there next morning by our men after the natives had left the pah."
"What a splendid fellow!" said Hypatia. "He fought for his country, as why should he not? But then, having received the Christian faith, he followed implicitly the precepts he had learned. Our men would have given water to wounded Maoris, but which of them would have risked his life to procure it?"
"I could tell you of other instances of similar conduct," said Mr. Summers. "The bishop, when he comes, will, I am sure, add to my list. But we must set to work now to ensure him a suitable reception. You will have a sermon, too, which, like all his addresses, will be deeply impressive."
All requisite preparations having been made, and a sort of "fiery cross" sent round in the hands of a fleet-limbed native youngster, a considerable gathering of Maoris of all ages and conditions was present at the appointed time. They came in honour of that heroic personage, George Augustus Selwyn, the famous Bishop of New Zealand, the hero of a hundred legends, the pioneer missionary, the modern embodiment of faith, zeal, and devotion, who had always been willing—nay, passionately eager—in the words of St. Paul, "to spend and be spent" in the service of his Master.
Hypatia stood back a little space while Mr. Summers and his wife warmly welcomed their pastor and master, with an earnestness there was no mistaking. The dark-skinned contingent then closed in, and obstructed her view of the man whom (with one exception), of all living personages, she was the most anxious to see, whom by reputation she honoured with a feeling akin to adoration.
He had come attended only by a middle-aged Maori, whose grizzled countenance and war-worn features showed that he had done his share in the professional occupation of the Maori gentilhomme of the period. He stood apart, leaning on his musket, but from the respect with which he was treated by all who approached, it was evident that he was a personage of no ordinary consideration.
It was a scene of more than ordinary interest. The older members of the hapu who still dwelt in the vicinity of the mission, were chiefly those who from age or infirmity were debarred from going to the war, then waged within so short a distance of their homes. A large proportion was composed of women, children, and young people not yet entitled to rank as combatants. All in turn came to be presented to the Pihopa Rangatira, making obeisance due and lowly. To each one he addressed a few words in Maori, the replies to which were made with evident pleasure, the children almost gasping with pride and gratification at the honour of the interview. Inquiries were made after well-known men, who had formerly been regular attendants at the little church, but too often resulted in downcast looks, as the sad word maté (dead) came forth, and in broken accents the name of the battle, skirmish, or locality was uttered. Well posted in the personal history of the missionary centres and their converts, the bishop never failed to bestow a word of sympathy or condolence upon the mourners.
The reception being ended, Mr. Summers announced that the assembly was free to betake itself to their kai (or meal), which had been prepared, taxing to the utmost the resources of the establishment.
"Permit me, my lord, to present to you Miss Tollemache, a friend and schoolfellow of my wife," said Mr. Summers, as they moved towards the cottage. "A young lady lately from England, who has cast in her lot with us."