long. Five minutes after he went on duty, while he was walking smartly up and down to keep warm, he heard a suspicious rustle in the fern. He stopped and peered into the dimness. Yes, he couldn't be wrong; those dark forms crawling towards him through the fern were Maoris! He raised his carbine and fired, then turned and raced for the redoubt, shouting out, "Stand to your arms, boys!"
The darkness—it was not yet dawn—was instantly lit up by the blaze of a return volley, and, with a fearful yell, the host of half-naked Maoris leaped from the fern and rushed for the redoubt.
The white soldiers, roused by the firing, rushed from their tents and manned the parapets and angles of the work, so furiously assailed by the swarming forest-men.
Captain Ross had leaped from his sleeping-place at the first alarm. He ran out from his wharé, armed with his sword and revolver, and clothed only in his shirt. He just managed to cross the ditch by the narrow plank-bridge ahead of the enemy, who missed the plank in the darkness.
The captain quickly called for volunteers to defend the gate.
"I'll make one, sir!" cried Michael Gill, an old Imperial soldier.
"All right. Gill," said the captain; it was pitch dark, but he knew Gill's voice. "Any more?"
Yes; they rushed for the gate—Henry McLean,
