fell back like a huge writhing serpent. As the sun started to go down behind the peaks, the mountain people pushed forward time and again and drove a wedge deep into the ranks of the river people who started to fall in ever increasing numbers beneath the superior weight of those who opposed them. Gradually the gallant war bands of Rangipakia and allies gave way and soon it developed into a running battle as the line broke and fled. Back, back fell the river people fighting furiously but unable to stem the inexorable rushes of their enemies. Even when they reached the forest there was no refuge from the pursuing enemy. The rear guards fought stubbornly on the narrow bush tracks so that the main body could make good their escape. None fought more gallantly than Rangipakia and his son Toheriri until suddenly a spear pierced the chief's leg and he collapsed with the weapon protruding from the other side. With one wrench, Toheriri broke off the tip and pulled the shaft from his father's leg. Rangipakia's face twisted with pain but he said nothing. Whilst the rest of the rear guard forged a barrier in front of the enemy, Toheriri and another man picked up the chief and together they supported him along the track. The going was slow and before long shouts from their rear told them that their pursuers had broken through. “Stop!” commanded Rangipakia. “Leave me here in this thicket beside the path. Return when all is clear by night and take me back to my people that I may fight again.” Toheriri hesitated a moment, then as his father made an impatient gesture, he and his companion turned and ran down the track whilst Rangipakia dragged himself into the bush and lay still, watching the path through a small chink in the thick curtain of greenery. Seconds later the mountain people swept down the track and from the cries and yells further down, Rangipakia guessed that more fighting was going on. Then these sounds died away and there was only the evening songs of the birds and, amongst them, the call of the tui which seemed to cry mockingly now … “Tuia! Tuia! Tuia! mai tatou—Bind! Bind! Bind us together!” At these words Rangipakia thought of the defeat to his tribe and the pain in his leg seemed to inflame into fresh life. The twilight was short and night soon fell. The forest slept but Rangipakia did not. He waited for his rescuers but no one came. After a pain-racked night, dawn broke. As the light and sunshine streamed through the trees turning the dew to wisps of steam and dappling the greenery with patchwork, there was no lightness in Rangipakia's heart nor warmth in his body. Again he heard the derisive call of the tuia … “Tuia! Tuia! Tuia mai tatou!”

III It had not long been light when Rangipakia heard voices from down the path. For a minute a spasm of hope gripped him until he realised that it was some of the mountain people returning from the chase. Suddenly, through his little opening, he saw one of those in front point to something on the ground and call to the others. From his words, the chief realised with horror that there must be a minute trail of blood leading from the path straight to his hiding place and the sharp-eyed enemy had seen it. Rangipakia tried to pull himself to his feet but with a rush the war party was on him and had hold of his arms. They half carried, half dragged Rangipakia along the forest tracks until they came to the edge of the bush where the rest of the mountain people had made a hasty camp. There he was recognised and given food and drink but he refused them both. He sat on the ground a prey to his thoughts. He knew that his useless leg ruled out any chance of escape or even of making a fight for it. He also knew that the alternative was slavery for the mountain people did not eat their captives. Slavery! This was a fate far worse than death on the battlefield or in the ovens of the victors. His family would be disgraced for ever and his tribe would never again command respect for their chief would be the slave of another people, a hewer of wood and a carrier of water, a menial to be spat on and jeered at. To be defeated was bad enough, to be captured and eaten was even worse, but to be captured and become a slave …! This was the ultimate disgrace. The thoughts crowded through Rangipakia's mind. How could he persuade the enemy to kill him and in that way save his mana and that of his family and tribe? How could he die honourable? Then at last an idea came to him. There was yet hope! If only Tu had spared the lives of his two brother chiefs who had led the allied war parties. Rangipakia struggled to his feet with a great effort. “Take me to your chief”. The chief of the mountain people received him courteously for he had no feelings of personal enmity towards Rangipakia. It was the impetuosity of some of his young men in killing the fishing party of the river people which had made events from then on inevitable…. Rangipakia asked: “Has my brother Te Whareporo been killed in the battle or has Tu spared him?” The chief of the mountain people shook his head. “Te Whareporo still lives and has eluded my son.” Then Rangipakia asked the fareful question on which hung his chance of saving the honour of his family and his tribe. “That is good! And what of my other brother Matorohanga? Has he also escaped?” “He has escaped and presumably still lives. You, Rangipakia, are our only captive of rank!” The lines of pain and despair on Rangipakia's face disappeared. His eye glowed with a fierce light as he got to his feet now seemingly without effort. He drew his shoulders back with dignity and stood with his arms folded across his chest.