THE next morning at daybreak a thick fog was clinging to the surface
of the river.  A portion of the vapors that saturated the air
were condensed by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on the water.
But the rays of the sun soon broke through the watery mass and
melted it away.
A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes,
projected into the uniting streams.  The swifter waters of the Waipa
rushed against the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile
before they mingled with it; but the calm and majestic river soon
quieted the noisy stream and carried it off quietly in its course
to the Pacific Ocean.
When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current
of the Waikato.  It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad,
and three deep; the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola,
and the whole hollowed out of a trunk of a kahikatea.
A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom.  It was swiftly
rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a man seated
in the stern.
This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age,
broad-chested, muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet.
His prominent and deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look,
and sinister expression, gave him a formidable aspect.
Tattooing, or "moko," as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark
of great distinction.  None is worthy of these honorary lines,
who has not distinguished himself in repeated fights.
The slaves and the lower class can not obtain this decoration.
Chiefs of high position may be known by the finish and precision
and truth of the design, which sometimes covers their whole
bodies with the figures of animals.  Some are found to undergo
the painful operation of "moko" five times.  The more illustrious,
the more illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.
Dumont D'Urville has given some curious details as to this custom.
He justly observes that "moko" is the counterpart of the armorial
bearings of which many families in Europe are so vain.
But he remarks that there is this difference:  the armorial bearings
of Europe are frequently a proof only of the merits of the first who
bore them, and are no certificate of the merits of his descendants;
while the individual coat-of-arms of the Maori is an irrefragible proof
that it was earned by the display of extraordinary personal courage.
The practice of tattooing, independently of the consideration
it procures, has also a useful aspect.  It gives the cu-taneous
system an increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency
of the season and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.
As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be no mistake.
The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had five times
scored his countenance.  He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed it
in his haughty bearing.
His figure, draped in a large mat woven of "phormium" trimmed
with dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers,
blood-stained from recent combats.  From the pendant lobe of his
ears hung earrings of green jade, and round his neck a quivering
necklace of "pounamous," a kind of jade stone sacred among
the New Zealanders.  At his side lay an English rifle, and a
"patou-patou," a kind of two-headed ax of an emerald color, and eighteen
inches long.  Beside him sat nine armed warriors of inferior rank,
ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent wounds.
They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax mantles.
Three savage-looking dogs lay at their feet.  The eight rowers
in the prow seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief.
They rowed vigorously, and propelled the boat against the not
very rapid current of the Waikato, with extraordinary velocity.
In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied together,
sat ten European prisoners closely packed together.
It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel,
the Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.
The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to
the mist, encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives.
Toward the middle of the night they were surprised in their sleep,
were made prisoners, and carried on board the canoe.  They had not been
ill-treated, so far, but all attempts at resistance had been vain.
Their arms and ammunition were in the hands of the savages,
and they would soon have been targets for their own balls.
They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives,
that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten
and decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back
to the Upper Waikato.  The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had
been picked off by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning
to make a final appeal to the tribes of the Waikato district,
so that he might go to the aid of the indomitable William Thompson,
who was still holding his own against the conquerors.
The chief's name was "Kai-Koumou," a name of evil boding in the
native language, meaning "He who eats the limbs of his enemy."
He was bold and brave, but his cruelty was equally remarkable.
No pity was to be expected at his hands.  His name was well known
to the English soldiers, and a price had been set on his head
by the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when
he was about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland,
and so regain his own country; but no one who looked at his cool,
calm features, could have guessed the anguish he endured.
Glenarvan always rose to his misfortunes.  He felt that his part
was to be the strength and the example of his wife and companions;
that he was the head and chief; ready to die for the rest
if circumstances required it.  He was of a deeply religious
turn of mind, and never lost his trust in Providence nor
his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise.
In the midst of this crowning peril he did not give way to any
feeling of regret at having been induced to venture into this
country of savages.
His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his lofty views;
and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have
been supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe.
With one accord, and by Glenarvan's advice, they resolved
to affect utter indifference before the natives.
It was the only way to impress these ferocious natures.
Savages in general, and particularly the Maories,
have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate.
They respect, above all things, coolness and courage.
Glenarvan was aware that by this mode of procedure, he and his
companions would spare themselves needless humiliation.
From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were
very taciturn, like all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word,
but from the few sentences they did utter, Glenarvan felt
certain that the English language was familiar to them.
He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on the fate
that awaited them.  Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said
in a perfectly unconcerned voice:
"Where are we going, chief?"
Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.
"What are you going to do with us?" pursued Glenarvan.
A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he said
in a deep voice:
"Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you
if they don't."
Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in his heart.
He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of
the English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged.
So they had a chance of salvation, and the case was not
quite so desperate.
The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river.
Paganel, whose excitable temperament always rebounded from
one extreme to the other, had quite regained his spirits.
He consoled himself that the natives were saving them the trouble
of the journey to the English outposts, and that was so much gain.
So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the course
of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in
a low voice with Glenarvan, and the keenest physiognomists
would have failed to see any anxiety in their faces.
The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand.  It is to the Maories
what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs.  In its
course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island,
from the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland.  It gave
its name to all those indomitable tribes of the river district,
which rose _en masse_ against the invaders.
The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any craft
but the native canoe.  The most audacious tourist will scarcely
venture to invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato
is sealed against profane Europeans.
Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives
regard this great arterial stream.  He knew that the English and
German naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction
with the Waipa.  He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou
would carry his captives?  He could not have guessed, but for hearing
the word "Taupo" repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors.
He consulted his map and saw that "Taupo" was the name of a lake
celebrated in geographical annals, and lying in the most mountainous
part of the island, at the southern extremity of Auckland province.
The Waikato passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles.