“It was a form of beauty that I have never since been able to banish from my mind. There, standing in an open space on the floor of a cavern of white marble, with the moonlight flooding in upon her from an opening in the rock, was a figure, white and dazzling. For a long time I stood gazing at the most beautiful face and form it has fallen to my lot to look upon. It was a woman in the first years of womanhood; her arms were raised towards something she could see in the western sky through the opening; a thin robe covered her form, and a breath of wind had swayed it gently against her limbs. But, O chief, mark this: her hair, which fell in rippling folds over her outstretched arms, was white and glistening, and, though the expression on her face was that of one who sees a vision of joy, her eyes were colourless. Her form was full of yearning—of pursuing prayer towards the glory of her vision, but she moved not. I drew nearer and stood before her. Then I saw that this woman was an image in marble, lifelike, beauteous, wonderful; but stone—cold stone!”
Again he paused, and I watched the face of the aged chief. It was calm and unmoved, but his eyes blazed like polished obsidian reflecting the sun. He spoke never a word, and Kahikatea continued:
“While I gazed in wonder at this radiant image—in my dream, O chief—I heard a step behind me, and, before I could turn, a stunning blow on the head felled me. Then I no longer knew light from darkness. My dream ended there for a time, but when again I emerged from darkness I was lying on my back on the bank of a stream at the foot of the mountain wall a thousand feet below, my clothes wet through, and my body stiff and sore with bruises. That is my dream, O chief. My words to you are ended.”
Te Makawawa sat silent and thoughtful, considering his reply. While he was doing so it occurred to me to add my story to Kahikatea’s statement, for I now understood why my friend had been startled at my mention of the word “sculptress.”
“I also have a word to lay before you, chief,” said I.
“Proceed, O Friend of Kahikatea,” he replied.
Then I narrated to him the history of the woman—how it had become a matter of great moment that news of her should be obtained. How I, through my knowledge of the Maori tongue, had been sent to look for her, and how, finally, it seemed to me that what the wind had whispered to the branches of the Kahikatea was connected in some strange way with the woman, for was she not wise in the matter of cutting figures out of stone? In conclusion, I handed him the fragment of wood. He inspected it carefully, and then asked the meaning of the words.
“They mean,” said I, watching his face intently, “that a woman named Miriam Grey was taken prisoner eighteen years ago by a certain Te Makawawa, that she is near a mountain and a tableland—the meaning here is washed away—and that she was still alive three years ago. O chief, my words, too, are ended.”
Silence again ensued, which remained unbroken for a long space, during which time an artist might have caught the aged chief’s expression exactly, for it remained unaltered. I knew that if he did not speak soon he would not speak at all, and we should go back the way we came, not very much wiser than when we started. I employed the time wondering how much he knew. Was he considering the terms of his reply, or was he quietly making up his mind as to whether he should reply at all? At length he raised his eyes and encountered those of my friend.
“O Kahikatea,” he said solemnly, “like Tawhaki of old thou knowest the ‘way of the spider,’ and, like him, thou hast seen Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn. I can speak of what I know to one with whom the Great Tohungas of the Earth have spoken. But with thee, O Friend of my friend the Forest Tree,” he added, turning to me, “I will not speak except on a condition which I will lay upon the ground before you.”