e feeling of despair came over Don as, feeling himself between
two parties of enemies, he obeyed the natural instinct which prompted
him to concealment, and sank down among the ferns.

What should he do? Run for his life, or stay to help his wounded
companions, and share their fate?

He stopped and listened to a peculiar sound which he knew was the
forcing down of a wad in a gun-barrel. Then the strange hissing noise
was continued, and he could tell by the sounds that three guns were
being loaded.

The natives, as far as he knew, had no guns, therefore these must be a
party of sailors sent to shoot them down; and in the horror of being
seen and made the mark for a bullet, Don was about to creep cautiously
into a denser part of the bush, when he stopped short, asking himself
whether he was in a dream.

"All primed?" cried a hoarse voice, which made Don wonder whether he was
back in his uncle's yard at Bristol.

"Ay, ay."

"Come on, then. I know I brought one of 'em down. Sha'n't want no more
meat for a month."

"Say, mate, what are they?"

"I d'know. Noo Zealand turkeys, I s'pose."

"Who ever heard of turkey eight or nine foot high!" growled one of the
approaching party.

"Never mind who heard of 'em; we've seen 'em and shot 'em. Hallo!
Where are they? Mine ought to be about here."

"More to the left, warn't it, mate?"

"Nay, it was just about here."

There was a loud rustling and heavy breathing as if men were searching
here and there, and then some one spoke again--the man whose voice had
startled Don.

"I say, lads, you saw me bring that big one down?"

"I saw you shoot at it, Mikey; but it don't seem as if you had brought
it down. They must ha' ducked their heads, and gone off under the
bushes."

"But they was too big for that."

"Nay, not they. Looked big in the mist, same as things allus do in a
fog."

"I don't care; I see that great bird quite plain, and I'm sure I hit
him, and he fell somewhere--hah!"

There was the sharp _click_, _click_ of a gun being cocked, and a voice
roared out,--

"Here, you, Mike Bannock, don't shoot me."

There was a loud rustling among the ferns, and then Jem shouted again.

"Mas' Don--Ngati! Why--hoi--oh! It's all right!"

The familiar voice--the name Mike Bannock, and Jem's cheery, boyish
call, made Don rise, wondering more than ever whether this was not a
dream.

The day was rapidly growing lighter, and after answering Jem's hail, Don
cau