eam. There was a bright flame
beginning to spring up at a short distance, and every one appeared
going in that direction: I was soon there.

A house had been set on fire to make a light. Before another house,
close at hand, a dense circle of human beings was formed. I pushed my
way through, and then saw, by the bright light of the flaming house, a
scene which is still fresh before me: there, in the verandah of the
house, was an old grey-bearded man; he knelt upon one knee, and on the
other he supported the dead body of the young girl who had said she
would follow the spirit to spirit land. The delicate-looking body from
the waist upwards was bare and bloody; the old man's right arm was
under the neck, the lower part of his long grey beard was dabbled with
blood, his left hand was twisting his matted hair; he did not weep, he
_howled_, and the sound was that of a heathen despair, knowing no hope.
The young girl had secretly procured a loaded musket, tied to the
trigger a loop for her foot, placed the muzzle to her tender breast,
and blown herself to shatters. And the old man was her father, and a
_tohunga_. A calm low voice now spoke close beside me, "She has
followed her _rangatira_," it said. I looked round, and saw the famous
_tohunga_ of the night.

Now, young ladies, I have promised not to frighten you with
raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories; a sort of thing I detest, but which
has been too much the fashion with folks who write of matters Maori. I
have vowed not to draw a drop of blood except in a characteristic
manner. But this story is tragedy, or I don't know what tragedy is; and
the more tragic because, in every particular, literally true: and so,
if you cannot find some pity for the poor Maori girl who "followed her
lord to spirit land," I shall make it my business not to fall in love
with any of you any more for I won't say how long.

CHAPTER XI.

The Local Tapu.--The Taniwha.--The Battle on Motiti.--The Death
of Tiki Whenua.--Reflections.--Brutus, Marcus Antonius, and Tiki
Whenua.--Suicide.

A story-teller, like a poet or a pugilist, must be _born_, and not
_made_, and I begin to fancy I have not been born under a story-telling
planet, for by no effort that I can make can I hold on to the thread of
my story, and I am conscious the whole affair is fast becoming one
great parenthesis. If I could only get clear of this _tapu_ I would
"try back." I believe I ought to be just now completin