Part 39 (2/2)

For a time, though, all his toil seemed vain. It was a hard battle, too; for he who ministered was more fit to receive ministrations.

At last, though, there was a faint sigh from Katie's lips; and, soon after, a few muttered, unmeaning words from Murray told that the flame of life still burned feebly.

Wahika, too, with the hardihood of the savage, had, sooner even than his fellow-sufferers, shown that he was ready to fight for the last few sparks of life faintly burning in his breast; though had the rough, surgical aid of the old clergyman been much longer delayed, those sparks must have died out.

”Little flower of Moa's Nest?” he said at last, in an inquiring whisper, as his eager eyes gazed from face to face.

”Safe, I hope, friend savage,” said Mr Meadows, as he laid a cool, wet hand upon the New Zealander's fevered brow, when a quiet, satisfied smile flitted over the tattooed face; and he closed his eyes, to wait patiently, as became a warrior, for the fate that was to be his.

”Thank heaven, friend Lawler!” said Mr Meadows, at the end of an hour; ”matters are even looking hopeful. I was ready to despair myself at one time; but providentially, I was able to conquer the weakness. Prompt action, John Lawler--prompt action has gained us the day. And now, good men and true, prepare something in the shape of a litter, and let us bear these poor sufferers gently down from this dreadful place before the night falls.”

”Mind! Take care! Here, lean on me, sir,” cried Lawler eagerly; for Mr Meadows had turned deadly pale, and now reeled, and would have fallen but for the friendly arm.

”Thanks. Lawler, thanks,” said Mr Meadows. ”I'm afraid that I am very weak. I feel unstrung by what we have gone through; and it only wanted the sight of that poor fellow Bray, carried down--but a few hours ago a strong, healthy man--now so much clay--it only wanted that to completely overcome me.”

In a few minutes, though, Mr Meadows's brave heart sustained him again; and in spite of all advice to the contrary, he insisted upon superintending the removal of the sufferers, himself adjusting their heads, that the rough journey might not add fresh pangs.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE OLD STORY.

Busy hands and strong soon provided a shelter from the ruins of the Moa's Nest--the fragments of the schooner playing no inconsiderable part in the rough erection that was prepared for the sufferers; Mr Meadows declaring that it would be madness to yield to the wish of John Lawler, and convey them to his home.

And here, forgetting his own sufferings, the old clergyman fought a long and arduous fight with the fever that had seized his patients, but to be triumphant in the end--”Even though I am no doctor,” he said with a smile.

The hardy savage was the first to recover, and then to follow Mr Meadows about like a dog, never seeming weary of watching to do his bidding, in return for the life he had saved.

But months of weary weakness, and mourning for the father who was slain, succeeded before Katie Lee was again the bright-eyed maiden of old, though she struggled hard to be the stay and solace of her widowed mother.

At last came a day, an eventful day in the lives of two of the characters in this short narrative, when they knelt before Mr Meadows, to listen to his quaint but earnest voice repeating those words addressed to all who, in G.o.d's name, are joined together; while, as they rose, it was for him to gaze at them with bent head and moistened eyes; and the words of fatherly benediction spoken were husky and low.

”But these are no days for tears, my children,” he said, at last; for, indeed, the time had glided swiftly away. And under the management of him who had just reaped the reward of his patient forbearance, the Moa's Nest, rebuilt, stood once more homelike and prosperous in the smiling valley, with the Gap, more golden and glorious, s.h.i.+ning around rich in tokens of harvest, and the flocks and herds so carefully supervised by that stern-looking, tattooed chief, half savage, half-civilised man.

For Wahika clung to Edward Murray, who, tempting the sea no more, had settled in the old pleasant vale, for the dread of so dire an invasion occurring a second time troubled him not; though for long years to come the story was told in the settlers' homes, through the length and breadth of the three islands, of the gallant defence, the cruel slaughter, and the brave way in which the prisoners had been rescued, and the invaders put to the rout, their ringleaders expiating their crimes at Port Caroline, the residue, few indeed, ending their career in Van Diemen's Land.

Such is the old story--a story of fifty years since, but fresh yet in the memory of grey-haired men, who listen to the chime of the church-bell, and walk the streets of the busy port that now stands at the mouth of Golden Gap. But a few minutes' walk will take you to the farm at the foot of the mighty volcanic cliffs, clothed nearly to their icy tops with gorgeous verdure; and, as you gaze upon the scene of peace, the heart seems to say it is impossible that such deeds of violence could have occurred to blur the beauty of the verdant vale, till memory recalls in new settlements scores of scenes as tragical as that at the rifling of the Moa's Nest.

STORY FOUR: VIOLETS IN THE SNOW.

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER ONE.

On one side there was a square, with trees that tried to look green in summer, but in winter time stuck in scraggy form out of the soot-peppered snow, with a beadle who wore a gold band round his hat and lived in a lodge, out of which he issued every morning with a thin rattan cane to keep away the boys; on the other side there was a row of goodly mansions, with a mews for the horses and carriages of the grandees who inhabited those mansions; and down between square and mansions, hidden behind the mews, as if it was a brick-and-mortar snake, there was Gutter-alley.

People said, how could such a dirty, squalid, unhealthy, beggar-inhabited place get there between the mansions of the rich.

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