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Ann had never seen two men fight before. Had she been a boxing expert she would have realized that here she had something worth watching. The two men were equally matched, and they were both skilled performers, but the science of the exhibition was lost on Ann; she was merely filled with horror and dismay. Not so the Maori shearers. They came running from the camp fire to form a delighted ring about the combatants—cheering on first one, and then the other! Mrs. Holmes and Waring were nowhere to be seen. Ann, nearly as white as her white frock, hemmed in by excited Maori men and women, stood an unwilling spectator of this—to her—appalling and uncivilized conflict.

She had enough sense to realize, in spite of her inexperience in such matters, that this was no ordinary sparring match. It was a battle which would only end with the disablement of one or other of the combatants. Already they looked horrible, their hands and faces streaked with blood. This fight must be stopped before murder was committed! Ann stopped it. She simply sprang in between the two men during one second in which they were a pace apart, and clung to Rodney’s hands. Hicky—utterly taken aback at this obstruction—endeavored to pull himself up in a rush forward, missed his footing and fell. In the moment’s respite, Ann had pushed the bewildered Rodney through the gate, and closed it. She stood outside and faced Hicky, who was scrambling to his feet.

“Take yourself off this instant,” she said; and then turned to Marsh who was pulling at the gate. “Don’t you dare to move,” she said fiercely.

She wheeled again towards Hicky.