he Maori claim was
just, and made up his mind to rescind the purchase. He was not autocrat
now, as he had been before, the New Zealand constitution which he had
drafted, being in operation. Things had to move by routine, there was
muddling somewhere, and in the middle of it all, the Maoris waylaid a
small party of soldiers.

Nobody had dreamt of such a thing. Sir George's ministers asked him:
'What are you going to do after this outrage and challenge?' He answered:
'We must give the land back, according to promise. The duty of a powerful
State is to be just, and re-introduce the proper owner to the land. We
cannot refuse to do so, because persons, over whom he has no control,
have massacred our soldiers.' But war surged across New Zealand, a wild,
unwholesome spectre, and Sir George must take it so. It had the tale of
Wereroa Pa, which again presents him as the mailed hand.

A British officer held a post which could not be relieved, until the
Maoris in Wereroa Pa had been scattered. That enforced the necessity,
urgent enough in itself, for capturing the fortress. The Maoris had spent
all their craft of defence on Wereroa, as, in the former New Zealand war,
they did on Ruapekapeka. Engirt by palisades of wood, high and strong,
they cried defiance to the Pakeha. The general in control of the British
troops would not tackle Wereroa with the strength at his disposal. Sir
George Grey resolved to do it himself, and got together what force he
could. It was bestriding the military regulations, usurping all forms and
traditions, but it was war.

The Maoris in the pa had a passing mind to surrender, and Sir George was
anxious to catch them thus. He rode up to take possession, though those
with him counselled 'Be careful lest we come to grief.' The parley was
perilous, for the bulk of the Maoris inside the pa were inclined, after
all, to resist to the uttermost. Sir George and his escort drew up within
easy range of the Maori muskets, and he was loth to turn back. He only
did so, when it had become evident that further delay might bring a
disaster. 'I wanted to convince them,' he emphasised, 'that if they would
not give up the place we should have to take it. Our welcome was so risky
that we might, perhaps, be compared to the little boy who scrambled up a
garden wall, only to find himself face to face with the Scotch gardener.
"Where are you going?" demanded the gardener; and the boy answered, "Back
again."

'That was our situ