It was past midday when they arrived. The place was astir, the streets were filled. There was murmur of voices, and that indescribable feeling in the air as of woe, or death imminent. Such was the conviction which smote the strong soul of Allister Mannering as, with his warriors ranked in battle line, he joined the throng, evidently converging towards a lofty cliff, which reared itself above the harbour.
An enclosure in which shrubs were in luxuriant growth now came into view, and marble columns showed themselves amid the dark green foliage. It was the cemetery.
The truth flashed across him. He had been afraid to ask. Was it, could it be, the funeral procession of his darling daughter—of Erena, the bright, beautiful, fearless maiden, whom he had so lately seen in the pride of her stately maidenhood and joyous youth? Lovely and beloved, was it possible that she could be now, even now, before his haggard eyes, borne to her tomb? He gazed on the little band of mourning girls who carried the flower-decked coffin. The native attendants of the missionary family walked behind with Mrs. Summers and Hypatia, while Cyril Summers, in full canonicals, with another clergyman, the army chaplain, preceded the cortége.
Behind them, again, came a company of the 43rd with their officers, another of the 68th, and the Forest Rangers, with Von Tempsky at their head. Also Messrs. Slyde and Warwick, who had been granted special leave for that day only by the army surgeon, looking weak and pale after their enforced seclusion.
Then came the native allies, the Arawa, the Ngapuhi, the Ngatiporu, all stern and warlike of appearance, proud to do honour to the maiden whose mother was of their race, with the blood of chiefs in her veins, whose descent could be traced back to the migration from Hawaiki.
Those who knew of the love, so deep, so passionate, which subsisted between the daughter and the sire, could partly realize the dull despair, the agonizing grief, which filled his heart at the moment. But none of the ordinary signs of sorrow betrayed the storm of anguish, the volcanic wrath and stifled fury, which raged within. His stern countenance preserved a rigid and awful calm. His voice faltered not as, walking forward when the cortége halted, he respectfully made request that the coffin-lid should be raised.
"Let me look upon the face once more," he said, "even in death, that I shall never see again on earth."
His request was granted. He stooped, and raising the cerecloth, gazed long and fixedly on the face of the dead girl. Then moving forward, he signed to the clergyman to proceed with the service, remaining uncovered until the last sad words were, with deepest feeling, solemnly pronounced.
As the irrevocable words were spoken, and the clay-cold form, which had held the fiery yet tender soul of Erena Mannering, was lowered into the grave, a tempest of sobs, cries, and wailing lamentation, until then repressed, burst forth from the Maoris in the great gathering. Then Mannering slowly turned away, and after dismissing his following, accompanied Mr. Summers. From him he learned the full particulars of the Hau-Hau invasion—of their captivity, their fearful anticipation of death by torture, the sudden appearance of Ropata and his warriors, their miraculous escape, and the death of Erena in the very moment of deliverance.