in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway.

It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but
every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they
stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit.

Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to
their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain
and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the
sea, now losing it again.

Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain;
and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and
trudged on.

They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful,
fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of
the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant.

"There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is
that those convicts will smell us out."

But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening,
as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing,
Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley,
and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of
cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they
realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

DON HAS A HEADACHE.

"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were
runaway convicts?" said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the
little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk
about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are
Englishmen. Come in."

"I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on
Ngati's arm.

"What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if
he's your friend, that's enough."

They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who
had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four
years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly
to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking
any questions.

Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching
sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold.

The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himse