At last his voice rose above the tumult.
"Taboo! taboo!" cried he.
At this word the crowd fell back before Glenarvan and his companions, thus temporarily preserved by a supernatural power. A few moments after they were led back to the temple that served as their prison; but Robert Grant and Paganel were no longer with them.
Kai-Koumou, according to a custom quite ordinary in New Zealand, joined the rank of priest to that of chief, and could, therefore, extend to persons or objects the superstitious protection of the taboo.
The taboo, which is common to the tribes of Polynesia, has the power to prohibit at once all connection with the object or person tabooed. According to the Maori religion, whoever should lay his sacrilegious hand on what is declared taboo would be punished with death by the offended god; and in case the divinity should delay to avenge his own insult, the priests would not fail to excite his anger.
As for the prisoners confined in the temple, the taboo had rescued them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the natives, the friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, had stopped suddenly at the command of their chief, and had protected the captives.
Glenarvan, however, was not blind to the fate that was reserved for him. Only his death could atone for the murder of a chief. Among savage races death is always preceded by a protracted torture. He therefore expected to cruelly expiate the righteous indignation that had nerved his arm, but hoped that Kai-Koumou's rage would fall only on himself.
What a night he and his companions passed! Who could depict their anguish, or measure their sufferings? Neither poor Robert nor brave Paganel had reappeared. But how could they doubt their fate? Were they not the first victims of the natives' vengeance? All hope had vanished even from the heart of the major, who did not easily despair. John Mangles felt himself growing mad at sight of the sad dejection of Mary Grant, thus separated from her brother. Glenarvan thought of that terrible request of Lady Helena, who, rather than yield to torture or slavery, preferred to die by his hand. Could he summon this fearful courage? As for an escape, that was plainly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the teeth, guarded the entrance of the temple.
Morning came at last. There had been no communication between the natives and the prisoners. The hut contained a considerable quantity of food, which the unfortunates scarcely touched. Hunger gave place to grief. The day passed without bringing a change or a hope. Doubtless the hour for the dead chief's funeral and their torture would be the same.
However, although Glenarvan concluded that Kai-Koumou must have abandoned all idea of exchange, the major on this point retained a gleam of hope.
"Who knows," said he, reminding Glenarvan of the effect produced upon the chief by the death of Kara-Tété,—"who knows but that Kai-Koumou in reality feels obliged to you?"
But, in spite of these observations, Glenarvan would no longer hope. The next day also passed away without the preparations for torture being made. The reason of the delay was this.
The Maoris believe that the soul, for three days after death, inhabits the body of the deceased, and therefore during this time the corpse remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed, and for two days the pah was deserted. Captain Mangles frequently stood on Wilson's shoulders and surveyed the fortification. No native was seen; only the sentinels guarded in turn at the door of their prison.
But on the third day the huts were opened. The savages, men, women, and children, to the number of several hundreds, assembled in the pah, silent and calm. Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and, surrounded by the principal warriors of his tribe, took his place on a mound several feet high in the centre of the fortification. The crowd of natives formed a semicircle around him, and the whole assembly preserved absolute silence.
At a sign from the chief, a warrior advanced towards the temple.
"Remember!" said Lady Helena to her husband.
Glenarvan clasped his wife to his heart. At this moment Mary Grant approached John Mangles.
"Lord and Lady Glenarvan," said she, "I think that, if a wife can die by the hand of her husband to escape a degrading existence, a maiden can likewise die by the hand of her lover. John (for I may tell you at this critical moment), have I not long been your betrothed in the depths of your heart? May I rely upon you, dear John, as Lady Helena does upon Lord Glenarvan?"
"Mary!" cried the young captain, in terror. "Ah! dear Mary——"
He could not finish: the mat was raised, and the captives were dragged towards Kai-Koumou. The two women were resigned to their fate, while the men concealed their anguish beneath a calmness that showed superhuman self-control. They came before the chief, who did not delay sentence.
"You killed Kara-Tété!" said he to Glenarvan.
"I did."
"You shall die to-morrow at sunrise."
"Alone?" inquired Glenarvan, whose heart beat quickly.
"What! as if our Tohonga's life were not more precious than yours!" cried Kai-Koumou, whose eyes expressed a fierce regret.
At this moment a commotion took place among the natives. Glenarvan cast a rapid glance around him. The crowd opened, and a warrior, dripping with sweat and overcome with fatigue, appeared.
As soon as Kai-Koumou perceived him, he said in English, evidently that he might be understood by the captives:
"You come from the camp of the pale-faces?"
"Yes," replied the Maori.
"You saw the prisoner, our Tohonga?"
"I did."
"Is he living?"
"He is dead! The English have shot him."
The fate of Glenarvan and his companions was settled.
"You shall all die to-morrow at daybreak!" cried Kai-Koumou.
The unfortunates were therefore to suffer a common death. Lady Helena and Mary Grant raised towards heaven a look of thankfulness.
The captives were not taken back to the temple. They were to attend that day the funeral of the dead chief, and the bloody ceremonies connected therewith. A party of natives conducted them to the foot of an enormous koudi, where these guardians remained without losing sight of their prisoners. The rest of the tribe, absorbed in their official mourning, seemed to have forgotten them.
The customary three days had elapsed since the death of Kara-Tété. The soul of the deceased had therefore forever abandoned its mortal abode. The sacred rites began.
The body was carried to a small mound in the centre of the fortification, clothed in splendid costume, and enveloped in a magnificent flaxen mat. The head was adorned with plumes, and wore a crown of green leaves. The face, arms, and breast had been rubbed with oil, and therefore showed no mortification.
The parents and friends of the deceased came to the foot of the mound, and all at once, as if some director were beating time to a funeral dirge, a great concert of cries, groans, and sobs arose on the air. They mourned the dead in plaintive and modulated cadences. His relations struck their heads together; his kinswomen lacerated their faces with their nails, and showed themselves more lavish of blood than of tears. These unfortunate females conscientiously fulfilled their barbarous duty.
But these demonstrations were not enough to appease the soul of the deceased, whose wrath would doubtless have smitten the survivors of his tribe; and his warriors, as they could not recall him to life, wished that he should have no cause to regret in the other world the happiness of this.
Kara-Tété's wife was not to forsake her husband in the tomb. Moreover, the unfortunate woman would not have been allowed to survive him; it was the custom, in accordance with duty, and examples of such sacrifices are not wanting in New Zealand history. The woman appeared. She was still young. Her hair floated in disorder over her shoulders. Vague words, lamentations, and broken phrases, in which she celebrated the virtues of the dead, interrupted her groans; and, in a final paroxysm of grief, she stretched herself at the foot of the mound, beating the ground with her head.
At this moment Kai-Koumou approached her. Suddenly the unfortunate victim rose; but a violent blow with the "méré," a formidable club, wielded by the hand of the chief, struck her lifeless to the earth.
Frightful cries at once broke forth. A hundred arms threatened the captives, who trembled at the horrible sight. But no one stirred, for the funeral ceremonies were not ended.
Kara-Tété's wife had joined her husband in the other world. Both bodies lay side by side. But for the eternal life his faithful spouse could not alone suffice the deceased. Who would serve them in presence of Nouï-Atoua, if their slaves did not follow them?
Six unfortunates were brought before the corpse of their master and mistress. They were servants, whom the pitiless laws of war had reduced to slavery. During the life of the chief they had undergone the severest privations, suffered a thousand abuses, had been scantily fed, and compelled constantly to labor like beasts; and now, according to the Maori belief, they were to continue their existence of servitude for eternity.
They appeared to be resigned to their fate, and were not astonished at a sacrifice they had long anticipated. Their freedom from all bonds showed that they would meet death unresistingly. Moreover, this death was rapid, protracted sufferings were spared them. These were reserved for the captives who stood trembling not twenty paces distant. Six blows of the méré, given by six stalwart warriors, stretched the victims on the ground in a pool of blood. It was the signal for a terrible scene of cannibalism, which followed in all its horrible details.
Glenarvan and his companions, breathless with fright, strove to hide this awful scene from the eyes of the two unhappy ladies. They now understood what awaited them at sunrise the next day, and what cruel tortures would doubtless precede such a death. They were dumb with horror.
The funeral dance now began. Strong spirits, extracted from an indigenous plant, maddened the savages till they seemed no longer human. Would they not forget the taboo of the chief, and throw themselves in their final outbreaks upon the prisoners who trembled at their frenzy?
The corpses, folded together, in a sitting posture, and tied in their clothes by a girdle of withes, were placed on this primitive bier.
But Kai-Koumou had preserved his reason in the midst of the general intoxication. He allowed this bloody orgy an hour to reach its utmost intensity. The last act of the funeral was played with the usual rites.
The bodies of Kara-Tété and his wife were taken up, and their limbs bent and gathered against the stomach, according to the New Zealand custom. The place for the tomb had been chosen outside of the fortification, about two miles distant, on the summit of a small mountain, called Maunganamu, situated on the right shore of the lake.
Thither the bodies were to be carried. Two very rude palanquins, or rather litters, were brought to the foot of the mound. The corpses, folded together, in a sitting posture, and tied in their clothes by a girdle of withes, were placed on this primitive bier. Four warriors bore it between them, and the entire tribe, chanting the funeral hymn, followed them in procession to the place of burial.
The captives, who were always watched, saw them leave the inner inclosure of the pah, and then the songs and cries gradually died away. For about half an hour this funeral escort continued in sight, in the depths of the valley. Finally they perceived it again winding along the mountain paths. The distance gave a fantastic appearance to the undulating movements of the long, sinuous column.
The tribe stopped at the summit of the mountain, which was eight hundred feet high, at the place prepared for Kara-Tété's interment. A common Maori would have had only a hole and a heap of stones for a grave; but for a powerful and dreaded chief, destined doubtless for a speedy deification, a tomb worthy of his exploits was reserved.
The sepulchre had been surrounded by palisades, while stakes, ornamented with faces reddened with ochre, stood beside the grave where the bodies were to lie. The relatives had not forgotten that the "waidoua" (the spirit of the dead) feeds on substantial nourishment like the body during this perishable life. Food had therefore been deposited in the inclosure, together with the weapons and clothes of the deceased.
Nothing was wanting for the comfort of the tomb. Husband and wife were laid side by side, and then covered with earth and grass after a series of renewed lamentations. Then the procession silently descended the mountain, and now no one could ascend it under penalty of death, for it was tabooed.
Just as the sun was disappearing behind Lake Taupo, the captives were led back to their prison. They were not to leave it again until the summit of the Wahiti mountains should kindle with the first beams of the day. One night remained to prepare for death. In spite of the faintness, in spite of the horror with which they were seized, they shared their repast in common.
"We shall need all the strength possible to face death," said Glenarvan. "We must show these barbarians how Europeans and Christians can die."
The meal being finished, Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud, while all her companions, with uncovered heads, joined her. Having fulfilled this duty, and enjoyed this privilege, the prisoners embraced each other. Lady Helena and Mary Grant then retired to one corner of the hut, and stretched themselves upon a mat. Sleep, which soothes all woes, soon closed their eyes, and they slumbered in each other's arms, overcome by fatigue and long wakefulness.
Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said:
"My dear companions, our lives and those of these poor ladies are in God's hands. If Heaven has decreed that we shall die to-morrow, we can, I am sure, die like brave people, like Christians, ready to appear fearlessly before the final Judge. God, who does read the secrets of the soul, knows that we are fulfilling a noble mission. If death awaits us instead of success, it is his will. However severe his decree may be, I shall not murmur against it. But this is not death alone; it is torture, disgrace; and here are two women——"
Glenarvan's voice, hitherto firm, now faltered. He paused to control his emotion. After a moment's silence, he said to the young captain:
"John, you have promised Mary Grant what I have promised Lady Helena. What have you resolved?"
"This promise," replied John Mangles, "I believe I have the right in the sight of God to fulfill."
"Yes, John; but we have no weapons."
"Here is one," answered John, displaying a poniard. "I snatched it from Kara-Tété's hands when he fell at your feet. My lord, he of us who survives the other shall fulfill this vow."
At these words a profound silence reigned in the hut. At last the major interrupted it by saying:
"My friends, reserve this extreme measure till the last moment. I am no advocate of what is irremediable."
"I do not speak for ourselves," replied Glenarvan. "We can brave death, whatever it may be. Ah, if we were alone! Twenty times already would I have urged you to make a sally and attack those wretches. But they——"
At this moment Captain Mangles raised the mat and counted twenty-five natives, who were watching at the door of their prison. A great fire had been kindled, which cast a dismal light over the irregular outlines of the pah. Some of these savages were stretched around the fire; and others, standing and motionless, were darkly defined against the bright curtain of flame.
It is said that, between the jailer who watches and the prisoner who wishes to escape, the chances are on the side of the latter. Indeed, the design of one is stronger than that of the other, for the first may forget that he is guarding, but the second cannot forget that he is guarded; the captive thinks oftener of escaping than his guardian thinks of preventing his escape. But here it was hate and vengeance that watched the prisoners, and not an indifferent jailer. They had not been bound, for bonds were useless where twenty-five men guarded the only outlet of the prison.
This hut was built against the rock that terminated the fortification, and was only accessible by a narrow passage that connected it with the front of the pah. The other two sides of the building were flanked by towering precipices, and stood on the verge of an abyss a hundred feet deep. A descent this way was therefore impossible. There was no chance of escaping in the rear, which was guarded by the enormous rock. The only exit was the door of the temple, and the Maoris defended the narrow passage that connected it with the pah. All escape was therefore out of the question; and Glenarvan, after examining the walls of his prison, was forced to acknowledge this disheartening fact.
Meantime, the hours of this night of anguish were passing away. Dense darkness had covered the mountain. Neither moon nor stars illumined the deep shades. A few gusts of wind swept along the side of the pah. The stakes of the hut groaned, the fire of the natives suddenly revived at this passing draught, and the flames cast rapid flashes into the temple, illumining for a moment the group of prisoners. These poor people were absorbed with their last thoughts; a deathly silence reigned in the hut.
It must have been about four o'clock in the morning, when the major's attention was attracted by a slight sound that seemed to come from behind the rear stakes, in the back wall that lay towards the rock. At first he was indifferent to the noise, but finding that it continued, he listened. At last, puzzled by its persistence, he put his ear close to the ground to hear better. It seemed as if some one was scraping and digging outside.
When he was certain of this fact, he passed quietly towards Glenarvan and the captain, and led them to the rear of the hut.
"Listen," said he, in a low voice, motioning to them to bend down.
The scrapings became more and more audible. They could hear the little stones grate under the pressure of a sharp instrument and fall down outside.
"Some creature in its burrow," said Captain Mangles.
Glenarvan, with bewildered gaze, stood astonished.
"Who knows," said he, "but that it is a man?"
"Man or animal," replied the major, "I will know what is going on."
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all began to dig in the wall, the captain with his poniard, the others with stones pulled out of the ground, or with their nails, while Mulready, stretched on the earth, watched the group of natives through the loop-hole of the mat. But they were motionless around the fire, and did not suspect what was transpiring twenty paces from them.
The soil was loose and crumbling, and lay upon a bed of clay, so that, in spite of the want of tools, the hole rapidly enlarged. It was soon evident that somebody, clinging to the sides of the pah, was making a passage in its outer wall. What could be the object? Did he know of the existence of the prisoners, or could a mere chance attempt at escape explain the work that seemed nearly completed?
The captives redoubled their efforts. Their lacerated fingers bled, but still they dug on. After half an hour's labor, the hole they were drilling had reached a depth of three feet. They could perceive by the sounds, which were now more distinct, that only a thin layer of earth prevented immediate communication.
A few moments more elapsed, when suddenly the major drew back his hand, which was cut by a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry that was about to escape him. Captain Mangles, holding out his poniard, avoided the knife that was moving out of the ground, but seized the hand that held it. It was the hand of a woman or a youth, a European hand. Not a word had been uttered on either side. There was plainly an object in keeping silent.
"Is it Robert?" murmured Glenarvan.
But, though only whispering this name, Mary Grant, awakened by the movement that was taking place in the hut, glided towards Glenarvan, and, seizing this hand all soiled with mud, covered it with kisses.
"It is you! it is you!" cried the young girl, who could not be mistaken, "you, my Robert!"
"Yes, little sister," replied Robert, "I am here to save you all! But silence!"
"Brave lad!" repeated Glenarvan.
"Keep watch of the savages outside," continued Robert.
Mulready, whose attention had been diverted for a moment by the appearance of the hand, resumed his post of observation.
"All is well," said he. "Only four warriors are watching now. The others have fallen asleep."
"Courage!" replied Wilson.
In an instant the hole was widened, and Robert passed from the arms of his sister into those of Lady Helena. Around his body was wound a rope of flax.
"My boy! my boy!" murmured Lady Helena; "these savages did not kill you?"
"No, madam," replied Robert. "Somehow, during the uproar, I succeeded in escaping their vigilance. I crossed the yard. For two days I kept hidden behind the bushes. At night I wandered about, longing to see you again. While the tribe were occupied with the funeral of the chief, I came and examined this side of the fortification, where the prison stands, and saw that I could reach you. I stole this knife and rope in a deserted hut. The tufts of grass and the bushes helped me to climb. By chance I found a kind of grotto hollowed out in the very rock against which this hut rests. I had only a few feet to dig in the soft earth, and here I am."
Twenty silent kisses were his only answer.
"Let us start," said he, in a decided tone.
"Is Paganel below?" inquired Glenarvan.
"Mr. Paganel?" repeated the boy, surprised apparently at the question.
"Yes; is he waiting for us?"
"No, my lord. What! is he not here?"
"He is not, Robert," replied Mary Grant.
"What! have you not seen him?" exclaimed Glenarvan. "Did you not meet each other in the confusion? Did you not escape together?"
"No, my lord," answered Robert, at a loss to understand the disappearance of his friend Paganel.
"Let us start," said the major; "there is not a moment to lose. Wherever Paganel may be, his situation cannot be worse than ours here. Let us go."
Indeed, the moments were precious. It was high time to start. The escape presented no great difficulties, but for the almost perpendicular wall of rock outside of the grotto, twenty feet high. The declivity then sloped quite gently to the base of the mountain, from which point the captives could quickly gain the lower valleys, while the Maoris, if they chanced to discover their flight, would be forced to make a very long détour, since they were not aware of the passage that had been dug in the mountain.
First her husband, and then she, slid down the rope to the point where the perpendicular wall met the summit of the slope.
They now prepared to escape, and every precaution was taken to insure their success. The captives crawled one by one through the narrow passage, and found themselves in the grotto. Captain Mangles, before leaving the hut, concealed all traces of their work, and glided in his turn through the opening, which he closed with the mats. Their outlet was therefore entirely hidden.
The object now was to descend the perpendicular wall of rock, which would have been impossible if Robert had not brought the flax rope. It was unwound, fastened to a point of rock, and thrown over the declivity.
Before allowing his friends to trust their weight to these flaxen fibres, Captain Mangles tested them. They seemed to be quite strong, but it would not answer to venture rashly, for a fall might be fatal.
"This rope," said he, "can only bear the weight of two bodies, and we must therefore act accordingly. Let Lord and Lady Glenarvan slide down first. When they have reached the bottom, three shakes at the rope will be the signal to follow them."
"I will go first," replied Robert. "I have discovered at the base of the slope a sort of deep excavation, where those who descend first can wait for the others in safety."
"Go then, my boy," said Glenarvan, clasping the boy's hand.
Robert disappeared through the opening of the grotto. A moment after, three shakes of the rope informed them that he had accomplished his descent successfully.
Glenarvan and Lady Helena now ventured out of the grotto. The darkness below was still profound, but the gray light of dawn was already tinging the top of the mountain. The keen cold of the morning reanimated the young wife; she felt stronger, and commenced her perilous escape.
First her husband, and then she, slid down the rope to the point where the perpendicular wall met the summit of the slope. Then Glenarvan, going before his wife and assisting her, began to descend the declivity of the mountain backwards. He sought for tufts of grass and bushes that offered a point of support, and tried them before placing Lady Helena's feet upon them. Several birds, suddenly awakened, flew away with shrill cries, and the fugitives shuddered when a large stone rolled noisily to the base of the mountain.
They had accomplished half the distance when a voice was heard at the opening of the grotto.
"Stop!" whispered Captain Mangles.
Glenarvan, clinging with one hand to a tuft of grass and holding his wife with the other, waited, scarcely breathing.
Wilson had taken alarm. Hearing some noise outside, he had returned to the hut, and, raising the mat, watched the Maoris. At a sign from him the captain had stopped Glenarvan.
In truth, one of the warriors, startled by some unaccustomed sound, had risen and approached the prison. Standing two paces from the hut, he listened with lowered head. He remained in this attitude for a moment, that seemed an hour, with ear intent and eye on the alert. Then, shaking his head as a man who is mistaken, he returned to his companions, took an armful of dead wood and threw it on the half-extinct fire, whose flames revived. His face, brightly illumined by the blaze, betrayed no more anxiety, and, after gazing at the first glimmers of dawn that tinged the horizon, he stretched himself beside the fire to warm his cold limbs.
"All right!" said Wilson.
The captain made a sign to Glenarvan to continue his descent. The latter, accordingly, slid gently down the slope, and soon Lady Helena and he stood on the narrow path where Robert was waiting for them. The rope was shaken three times, and next Captain Mangles, followed by Mary Grant, took the same perilous course. They were successful, and joined Lord and Lady Glenarvan.
Five minutes later all the fugitives, after their fortunate escape from the hut, left this temporary retreat, and, avoiding the inhabited shores of the lake, made their way by narrow paths farther down the mountain. They advanced rapidly, seeking to avoid all points where they might be seen. They did not speak, but glided like shadows through the bushes. Where were they going? At random, it is true, but they were free.
About five o'clock day began to break. Purple tints colored the lofty banks of clouds. The mountain peaks emerged from the mists of the morning. The orb of day would not be long in appearing, and instead of being the signal for torture, was to betray the flight of the condemned.
Before this dreaded moment arrived it was important that the fugitives should be beyond the reach of the savages. But they could not advance quickly, for the paths were steep. Lady Helena scaled the declivities, supported and even carried by Glenarvan, while Mary Grant leaned upon the arm of her betrothed. Robert, happy and triumphant, whose heart was full of joy at his success, took the lead, followed by the two sailors.
For half an hour the fugitives wandered at a venture. Paganel was not there to guide them,—Paganel, the object of their fears, whose absence cast a dark shadow over their happiness. However, they proceeded towards the east as well as possible, in the face of a magnificent dawn. They had soon reached an elevation of five hundred feet above Lake Taupo, and the morning air at this altitude was keen and cold. Hills and mountains rose one above another in indistinct outlines; but Glenarvan only wished to conceal himself and his companions. Afterwards they would see about issuing from this winding labyrinth.
At last the sun appeared and flashed his first rays into the faces of the fugitives. Suddenly a terrible yelling, the concentrated union of a hundred voices, broke forth upon the air. It rose from the pah, whose exact position Glenarvan did not now know. Moreover, a thick curtain of mist stretched at their feet, and prevented them from distinguishing the valleys below.
But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered. Could they elude the pursuit of the natives? Had they been perceived? Would their tracks betray them?
At this moment the lower strata of vapor rose, enveloping them for an instant in a moist cloud, and they discerned, three hundred feet below them, the frantic crowd of savages.
They saw, but were also seen. Renewed yells resounded, mingled with barks; and the whole tribe, after vainly endeavoring to climb the rock, rushed out of the inclosure and hastened by the shortest paths in pursuit of the prisoners, who fled in terror from their vengeance.
The summit of the mountain was a hundred feet higher. It was important for the fugitives to reach it, that they might conceal themselves from the sight of the Maoris, on the opposite slope. They hoped that some practicable ridge would then enable them to gain the neighboring peaks. The ascent was, therefore, hastened, as the threatening cries came nearer and nearer. The pursuers had reached the foot of the mountain.
"Courage, courage, my friends!" cried Glenarvan, urging his companions with word and gesture.
In less than five minutes they reached the top of the mountain. Here they turned around to consider their situation, and take some route by which they might evade the Maoris.
From this height the prospect commanded Lake Taupo, which extended towards the west in its picturesque frame of hills. To the north rose the peaks of Pirongia; to the south the flaming crater of Tongariro. But towards the east the view was limited by a barrier of peaks and ridges.
Glenarvan cast an anxious glance around him. The mist had dissolved under the rays of the sun, and his eye could clearly distinguish the least depressions of the earth. No movement of the Maoris could escape his sight.
The natives were not five hundred feet distant, when they reached the plateau upon which the solitary peak rested. Glenarvan could not, for ever so short a time, delay longer. At all hazards they must fly, at the risk of being hemmed in on all sides.
"Let us go down," cried he, "before our only way of escape is blocked up."
But just as the ladies rose by a final effort, MacNabb stopped them, and said:
"It is useless, Glenarvan. Look!"
And all saw, indeed, that an inexplicable change had taken place in the movements of the Maoris. Their pursuit had been suddenly interrupted. Their ascent of the mountain had ceased, as if by an imperious interdict. The crowd of natives had checked their swiftness, and halted, like the waves of the sea before an impassable rock.
All the savages, thirsting for blood, were now ranged along the foot of the mountain, yelling, gesticulating, and brandishing guns and hatchets; but they did not advance a single foot. Their dogs, like themselves, as though chained to earth, howled with rage.
What was the difficulty? What invisible power restrained the natives? The fugitives gazed without comprehending, fearing that the charm that enchained Kai-Koumou's tribe would dissolve.
Suddenly Captain Mangles uttered a cry that caused his companions to turn. He pointed to a little fortress at the summit of the peak.
"The tomb of the chief Kara-Tété!" cried Robert.
"Are you in earnest?" asked Glenarvan.
"Yes, my lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it."
Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme point of the mountain, stood a small palisaded inclosure of freshly-painted stakes. Glenarvan, likewise, recognized the sepulchre of the Maori chief. In their wanderings they had come to the top of the Maunganamu, where Kara-Tété had been buried.
Followed by his companions, he climbed the sides of the peak, to the very foot of the tomb. A large opening, covered with mats, formed the entrance. Glenarvan was about to enter, when, all at once, he started back suddenly.
"A savage!" said he.
"A savage in this tomb?" inquired the major.
"Yes, MacNabb."
"What matter? Let us enter."
Glenarvan, the major, Robert, and Captain Mangles passed into the inclosure. A Maori was there, clad in a great flax mantle. The darkness of the sepulchre did not permit them to distinguish his features. He appeared very calm, and was eating his breakfast with the most perfect indifference.
Glenarvan was about to address him, when the native, anticipating him, said, in an amiable tone, and in excellent English:
"Be seated, my dear lord; breakfast is awaiting you."
It was Paganel. At his voice all rushed into the tomb, and gazed with wonder at the worthy geographer. Paganel was found! The common safety was represented in him. They were going to question him: they wished to know how and why he was on the top of the mountain; but Glenarvan checked this unseasonable curiosity.
"The savages," replied Paganel, shrugging his shoulders, "are individuals whom I supremely despise."
"But can they not——?"
"They! the imbeciles! Come and see them."
Each followed Paganel, who issued from the tomb. The Maoris were in the same place, surrounding the foot of the peak, and uttering terrible cries.
"Cry and howl till you are tired, miserable creatures!" said Paganel. "I defy you to climb this mountain!"
"And why?" asked Glenarvan.
"Because the chief is buried here; this tomb protects us, and the mountain is tabooed."
"Tabooed?"
"Yes, my friends; and that is why I took refuge here, as in one of those asylums of the Middle Ages, open to unfortunates."
Indeed, the mountain was tabooed, and by this consecration had become inaccessible by the superstitious savages.
The safety of the fugitives was not yet certain, but there was a salutary respite, of which they strove to take advantage. Glenarvan, a prey to unspeakable emotion, did not venture a word; while the major nodded his head with an air of genuine satisfaction.
"And now, my friends," said Paganel, "if these brutes expect us to test their patience they are mistaken. In two days we shall be beyond the reach of these rascals."
"We will escape!" said Glenarvan; "but how?"
"I do not know," replied Paganel, "but we will do so all the same."
All now wished to hear the geographer's adventures. Strangely enough, in the case of a man loquacious usually, it was necessary to draw, as it were, the words from his mouth. He, who was so fond of telling stories, replied only in an evasive way to the questions of his friends.
"Paganel has changed," thought MacNabb.
Indeed, the countenance of the geographer was no longer the same. He wrapped himself gloomily in his great flaxen mantle, and seemed to shun too inquisitive looks. However, when they were all seated around him at the foot of the tomb, he related his experiences.
After the death of Kara-Tété, Paganel had taken advantage, like Robert, of the confusion of the natives, and escaped from the pah. But less fortunate than young Grant, he had fallen upon an encampment of Maoris, who were commanded by a chief of fine form and intelligent appearance, who was evidently superior to all the warriors of his tribe. This chief spoke English accurately, and bade him welcome by rubbing his nose against that of the geographer. Paganel wondered whether he should consider himself a prisoner; but seeing that he could not take a step without being graciously accompanied by the chief, he soon knew how matters stood on this point.
The chief, whose name was "Hihy" (sunbeam), was not a bad man. The spectacles and telescope gave him a high opinion of Paganel, whom he attached carefully to his person, not only by his benefits, but by strong flaxen ropes, especially at night.
This novel situation lasted three long days. Was he well or badly treated? Both, as he stated without further explanation. In short, he was a prisoner, and, except for the prospect of immediate torture, his condition did not seem more enviable than that of his unfortunate friends.
Fortunately, last night he succeeded in biting asunder his ropes and escaping. He had witnessed at a distance the burial of the chief, knew that he had been interred on the summit of Maunganamu mountain, and that it was tabooed in consequence. He therefore resolved to take refuge there, not wishing to leave the place where his companions were held captives. He succeeded in his undertaking, arrived at Kara-Tété's tomb, and waited in hope that Providence would in some way deliver his friends.
Such was Paganel's story. Did he omit designedly any circumstance of his stay among the natives? More than once his embarrassment led them to suspect so. However that might be, he received unanimous congratulations; and as the past was now known, they returned to the present.
Their situation was still exceedingly critical. The natives, if they did not venture to climb the mountain, expected that hunger and thirst would force their prisoners to surrender. It was only a matter of time, and the savages had great patience. Glenarvan did not disregard the difficulties of his position, but waited for the favorable issue which Providence seemed to promise.
And first he wished to examine this improvised fortress; not to defend it, for an attack was not to be feared, but that he might find a way of escaping. The major and the captain, Robert, Paganel, and himself, took the exact bearings of the mountain. They observed the direction of the paths, their branches and declivities. A ridge a mile in length united the Maunganamu to the Wahiti range, and then declined to the plain. Its narrow and winding summit presented the only practicable route, in case escape should become possible. If the fugitives could pass this point unperceived, under cover of the night, perhaps they might succeed in reaching the deep valleys and outwitting the Maoris.
But this course offered more than one danger, as they would have to pass below within gun-shot. The bullets of the natives on the lower ramparts of the pah might intercept them, and form a barrier that no one could safely cross.
Glenarvan and his friends, as soon as they ventured on the dangerous part of the ridge, were saluted with a volley of shots; but only a few wads, borne by the wind, reached them. They were made of printed paper. Paganel picked them up out of curiosity, but it was difficult to decipher them.