For the Term of His Natural Life (2024)

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Title: For the Term of His Natural LifeAuthor: Marcus Clarke* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: e00016.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: June 2018Most recent update: June 2018Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.

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For the Term of His Natural Life

by

Marcus Clarke

DEDICATION TO SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY

My Dear Sir Charles, I take leave to dedicate this work to you, not merelybecause your nineteen years of political and literary life in Australia renderit very fitting that any work written by a resident in the colonies, and havingto do with the history of past colonial days, should bear your name upon itsdedicatory page; but because the publication of my book is due to your adviceand encouragement.

The convict of fiction has been hitherto shown only at the beginning or atthe end of his career. Either his exile has been the mysterious end to hismisdeeds, or he has appeared upon the scene to claim interest by reason of anequally unintelligible love of crime acquired during his experience in a penalsettlement. Charles Reade has drawn the interior of a house of correction inEngland, and Victor Hugo has shown how a French convict fares after thefulfilment of his sentence. But no writer—so far as I am aware—hasattempted to depict the dismal condition of a felon during his term oftransportation.

I have endeavoured in "His Natural Life" to set forth the working and theresults of an English system of transportation carefully considered and carriedout under official supervision; and to illustrate in the manner bestcalculated, as I think, to attract general attention, the inexpediency of againallowing offenders against the law to be herded together in places remote fromthe wholesome influence of public opinion, and to be submitted to a disciplinewhich must necessarily depend for its just administration upon the personalcharacter and temper of their gaolers.

Your critical faculty will doubtless find, in the construction and artisticworking of this book, many faults. I do not think, however, that you willdiscover any exaggerations. Some of the events narrated are doubtless tragicand terrible; but I hold it needful to my purpose to record them, for they areevents which have actually occurred, and which, if the blunders which producedthem be repeated, must infallibly occur again. It is true that the BritishGovernment have ceased to deport the criminals of England, but the method ofpunishment, of which that deportation was a part, is still in existence. PortBlair is a Port Arthur filled with Indian-men instead of Englishmen; and,within the last year, France has established, at New Caledonia, a penalsettlement which will, in the natural course of things, repeat in its annalsthe history of Macquarie Harbour and of Norfolk Island.

With this brief preface I beg you to accept this work. I would that itsmerits were equal either to your kindness or to my regard.

I am,

My dear Sir Charles,

Faithfully yours,

MARCUS CLARKE
THE PUBLIC LIBRARY, MELBOURNE

PROLOGUE.

On the evening of May 3, 1827, the garden of a large red-brick bow-windowedmansion called North End House, which, enclosed in spacious grounds, stands onthe eastern height of Hampstead Heath, between Finchley Road and the ChestnutAvenue, was the scene of a domestic tragedy.

Three persons were the actors in it. One was an old man, whose white hairand wrinkled face gave token that he was at least sixty years of age. He stooderect with his back to the wall, which separates the garden from the Heath, inthe attitude of one surprised into sudden passion, and held uplifted the heavyebony cane upon which he was ordinarily accustomed to lean. He was confrontedby a man of two-and-twenty, unusually tall and athletic of figure, dresses inrough seafaring clothes, and who held in his arms, protecting her, a lady ofmiddle age. The face of the young man wore an expression of horror-strickenastonishment, and the slight frame of the grey-haired woman was convulsed withsobs.

These three people were Sir Richard Devine, his wife, and his only sonRichard, who had returned from abroad that morning.

"So, madam," said Sir Richard, in the high-strung accents which in crises ofgreat mental agony are common to the most self-restrained of us, "you have beenfor twenty years a living lie! For twenty years you have cheated and mocked me.For twenty years—in company with a scoundrel whose name is a byword forall that is profligate and base—you have laughed at me for a credulousand hood-winked fool; and now, because I dared to raise my hand to thatreckless boy, you confess your shame, and glory in the confession!"

"Mother, dear mother!" cried the young man, in a paroxysm of grief, "saythat you did not mean those words; you said them but in anger! See, I am calmnow, and he may strike me if he will."

Lady Devine shuddered, creeping close, as though to hide herself in thebroad bosom of her son.

The old man continued: "I married you, Ellinor Wade, for your beauty; youmarried me for my fortune. I was a plebeian, a ship's carpenter; you were wellborn, your father was a man of fashion, a gambler, the friend of rakes andprodigals. I was rich. I had been knighted. I was in favour at Court. He wantedmoney, and he sold you. I paid the price he asked, but there was nothing ofyour cousin, my Lord Bellasis and Wotton, in the bond."

"Spare me, sir, spare me!" said Lady Ellinor faintly.

"Spare you! Ay, you have spared me, have you not? Look ye," he cried, insudden fury, "I am not to be fooled so easily. Your family are proud. ColonelWade has other daughters. Your lover, my Lord Bellasis, even now, thinks toretrieve his broken fortunes by marriage. You have confessed your shame.To-morrow your father, your sisters, all the world, shall know the story youhave told me!"

"By Heaven, sir, you will not do this!" burst out the young man.

"Silence, bastard!" cried Sir Richard. "Ay, bite your lips; the word is ofyour precious mother's making!"

Lady Devine slipped through her son's arms and fell on her knees at herhusband's feet.

"Do not do this, Richard. I have been faithful to you for two-and-twentyyears. I have borne all the slights and insults you have heaped upon me. Theshameful secret of my early love broke from me when in your rage, youthreatened him. Let me go away; kill me; but do not shame me."

Sir Richard, who had turned to walk away, stopped suddenly, and his greatwhite eyebrows came together in his red face with a savage scowl. He laughed,and in that laugh his fury seemed to congeal into a cold and cruel hate.

"You would preserve your good name then. You would conceal this disgracefrom the world. You shall have your wish—upon one condition."

"What is it, sir?" she asked, rising, but trembling with terror, as shestood with drooping arms and widely opened eyes.

The old man looked at her for an instant, and then said slowly, "That thisimpostor, who so long has falsely borne my name, has wrongfully squandered mymoney, and unlawfully eaten my bread, shall pack! That he abandon for ever thename he has usurped, keep himself from my sight, and never set foot again inhouse of mine."

"You would not part me from my only son!" cried the wretched woman.

"Take him with you to his father then."

Richard Devine gently loosed the arms that again clung around his neck,kissed the pale face, and turned his own—scarcely less pale—towardsthe old man.

"I owe you no duty," he said. "You have always hated and reviled me. When byyour violence you drove me from your house, you set spies to watch me in thelife I had chosen. I have nothing in common with you. I have long felt it. Nowwhen I learn for the first time whose son I really am, I rejoice to think thatI have less to thank you for than I once believed. I accept the terms youoffer. I will go. Nay, mother, think of your good name."

Sir Richard Devine laughed again. "I am glad to see you are so welldisposed. Listen now. To-night I send for Quaid to alter my will. My sister'sson, Maurice Frere, shall be my heir in your stead. I give you nothing. Youleave this house in an hour. You change your name; you never by word or deedmake claim on me or mine. No matter what strait or poverty you plead—ifeven your life should hang upon the issue—the instant I hear that thereexists on earth one who calls himself Richard Devine, that instant shall yourmother's shame become a public scandal. You know me. I keep my word. I returnin an hour, madam; let me find him gone."

He passed them, upright, as if upborne by passion, strode down the gardenwith the vigour that anger lends, and took the road to London.

"Richard!" cried the poor mother. "Forgive me, my son! I have ruinedyou."

Richard Devine tossed his black hair from his brow in sudden passion of loveand grief.

"Mother, dear mother, do not weep," he said. "I am not worthy of your tears.Forgive! It is I—impetuous and ungrateful during all your years ofsorrow—who most need forgiveness. Let me share your burden that I maylighten it. He is just. It is fitting that I go. I can earn a name—a namethat I need not blush to bear nor you to hear. I am strong. I can work. Theworld is wide. Farewell! my own mother!"

"Not yet, not yet! Ah! see he has taken the Belsize Road. Oh, Richard, prayHeaven they may not meet."

"Tush! They will not meet! You are pale, you faint!"

"A terror of I know not what coming evil overpowers me. I tremble for thefuture. Oh, Richard, Richard! Forgive me! Pray for me."

"Hush, dearest! Come, let me lead you in. I will write. I will send you newsof me once at least, ere I depart. So—you are calmer, mother!"

*

Sir Richard Devine, knight, shipbuilder, naval contractor, and millionaire,was the son of a Harwich boat carpenter. Early left an orphan with a sister tosupport, he soon reduced his sole aim in life to the accumulation of money. Inthe Harwich boat-shed, nearly fifty years before, he had contracted—indefiance of prophesied failure—to build the Hastings sloop of war for HisMajesty King George the Third's Lords of the Admiralty. This contract was thethin end of that wedge which eventually split the mighty oak block ofGovernment patronage into three-deckers and ships of the line; which did goodservice under Pellew, Parker, Nelson, Hood; which exfoliated and ramified intohuge dockyards at Plymouth, Portsmouth, and Sheerness, and bore, as its budsand flowers, countless barrels of measly pork and maggoty biscuit. The sole aimof the coarse, pushing and hard-headed son of Dick Devine was to make money. Hehad cringed and crawled and fluttered and blustered, had licked the dust offgreat men's shoes, and danced attendance in great men's ante-chambers. Nothingwas too low, nothing too high for him. A shrewd man of business, a thoroughmaster of his trade, troubled with no scruples of honour or of delicacy, hemade money rapidly, and saved it when made. The first hint that the publicreceived of his wealth was in 1796, when Mr. Devine, one of the shipwrights tothe Government, and a comparatively young man of forty-four or thereabouts,subscribed five thousand pounds to the Loyalty Loan raised to prosecute theFrench war. In 1805, after doing good, and it was hinted not unprofitable,service in the trial of Lord Melville, the Treasurer of the Navy, he marriedhis sister to a wealthy Bristol merchant, one Anthony Frere, and marriedhimself to Ellinor Wade, the eldest daughter of Colonel Wotton Wade, a booncompanion of the Regent, and uncle by marriage of a remarkable scamp and dandy,Lord Bellasis. At that time, what with lucky speculations in theFunds—assisted, it was whispered, by secret intelligence from Franceduring the stormy years of '13, '14, and '15—and the legitimate profit onhis Government contracts, he had accumulated a princely fortune, and couldafford to live in princely magnificence. But the old-man-of-the-sea burden ofparsimony and avarice which he had voluntarily taken upon him was not to beshaken off, and the only show he made of his wealth was by purchasing, on hisknighthood, the rambling but comfortable house at Hampstead, and ostensiblyretiring from active business.

His retirement was not a happy one. He was a stern father and a severemaster. His servants hated, and his wife feared him. His only son Richardappeared to inherit his father's strong will and imperious manner. Undercareful supervision and a just rule he might have been guided to good; but leftto his own devices outside, and galled by the iron yoke of parental disciplineat home, he became reckless and prodigal. The mother—poor, timid Ellinor,who had been rudely torn from the love of her youth, her cousin, LordBellasis—tried to restrain him, but the head-strong boy, though owningfor his mother that strong love which is often a part of such violent natures,proved intractable, and after three years of parental feud, he went off to theContinent, to pursue there the same reckless life which in London had offendedSir Richard. Sir Richard, upon this, sent for Maurice Frere, his sister'sson—the abolition of the slave trade had ruined the Bristol House ofFrere—and bought for him a commission in a marching regiment, hintingdarkly of special favours to come. His open preference for his nephew hadgalled to the quick his sensitive wife, who contrasted with some heart-pangsthe gallant prodigality of her father with the nigg*rdly economy of herhusband. Between the houses of parvenu Devine and long-descended Wotton Wadethere had long been little love. Sir Richard felt that the colonel despised himfor a city knight, and had heard that over claret and cards Lord Bellasis andhis friends had often lamented the hard fortune which gave the beauty, Ellinor,to so sordid a bridegroom. Armigell Esme Wade, Viscount Bellasis and Wotton,was a product of his time. Of good family (his ancestor, Armigell, was reputedto have landed in America before Gilbert or Raleigh), he had inherited hismanor of Bellasis, or Belsize, from one Sir Esme Wade, ambassador from QueenElizabeth to the King of Spain in the delicate matter of Mendoza, andafterwards counsellor to James I, and Lieutenant of the Tower. This Esme was aman of dark devices. It was he who negotiated with Mary Stuart for Elizabeth;it was he who wormed out of Cobham the evidence against the great Raleigh. Hebecame rich, and his sister (the widow of Henry de Kirkhaven, Lord of Hemfleet)marrying into the family of the Wottons, the wealth of the house was furtherincreased by the union of her daughter Sybil with Marmaduke Wade. MarmadukeWade was a Lord of the Admiralty, and a patron of Pepys, who in his diary [July17,1668] speaks of visiting him at Belsize. He was raised to the peerage in1667 by the title of Baron Bellasis and Wotton, and married for his second wifeAnne, daughter of Philip Stanhope, second Earl of Chesterfield. Allied to thispowerful house, the family tree of Wotton Wade grew and flourished.

In 1784, Philip, third Baron, married the celebrated beauty, Miss Povey, andhad issue Armigell Esme, in whose person the family prudence seemed to have runitself out.

The fourth Lord Bellasis combined the daring of Armigell, the adventurer,with the evil disposition of Esme, the Lieutenant of the Tower. No sooner hadhe become master of his fortune than he took to dice, drink, and debaucherywith all the extravagance of the last century. He was foremost in every riot,most notorious of all the notorious "bloods" of the day.

Horace Walpole, in one of his letters to Selwyn in 1785, mentions a factwhich may stand for a page of narrative. "Young Wade," he says, "is reported tohave lost one thousand guineas last night to that vulgarest of all theBourbons, the Duc de Chartres, and they say the fool is not yet nineteen." Froma pigeon Armigell Wade became a hawk, and at thirty years of age, having losttogether with his estates all chance of winning the one woman who might havesaved him—his cousin Ellinor—he became that most unhappy of allbeings, a well-born blackleg. When he was told by thin-lipped, cool ColonelWade that the rich shipbuilder, Sir Richard Devine, had proposed an alliancewith fair-haired gentle Ellinor, he swore, with fierce knitting of his blackbrows, that no law of man nor Heaven should further restrain him in his selfishprodigality. "You have sold your daughter and ruined me," he said; "look to theconsequences." Colonel Wade sneered at his fiery kinsman: "You will find SirRichard's house a pleasant one to visit, Armigell; and he should be worth anincome to so experienced a gambler as yourself." Lord Bellasis did visit at SirRichard's house during the first year of his cousin's marriage; but upon thebirth of the son who is the hero of this history, he affected a quarrel withthe city knight, and cursing him to the Prince and Poins for a miserlycurmudgeon, who neither diced nor drank like a gentleman, departed, moredesperately at war with fortune than ever, for his old haunts. The year 1827found him a hardened, hopeless old man of sixty, battered in health and ruinedin pocket; but who, by dint of stays, hair-dye, and courage, yet faced theworld with undaunted front, and dined as gaily in bailiff-haunted Belsize as hehad dined at Carlton House. Of the possessions of the House of Wotton Wade,this old manor, timberless and bare, was all that remained, and its masterrarely visited it.

On the evening of May 3, 1827, Lord Bellasis had been attending a pigeonmatch at Hornsey Wood, and having resisted the importunities of his companion,Mr. Lionel Crofton (a young gentleman-rake, whose position in the sportingworld was not the most secure), who wanted him to go on into town, he hadavowed his intention of striking across Hampstead to Belsize. "I have anappointment at the fir trees on the Heath," he said.

"With a woman?" asked Mr. Crofton.

"Not at all; with a parson."

"A parson!"

"You stare! Well, he is only just ordained. I met him last year at Bath onhis vacation from Cambridge, and he was good enough to lose some money tome."

"And now waits to pay it out of his first curacy. I wish your lordship joywith all my soul. Then, we must push on, for it grows late."

"Thanks, my dear sir, for the 'we,' but I must go alone," said Lord Bellasisdryly. "To-morrow you can settle with me for the sitting of last week. Hark!the clock is striking nine. Good night."

*

At half-past nine Richard Devine quitted his mother's house to begin the newlife he had chosen, and so, drawn together by that strange fate ofcirc*mstances which creates events, the father and son approached eachother.

*

As the young man gained the middle of the path which led to the Heath, hemet Sir Richard returning from the village. It was no part of his plan to seekan interview with the man whom his mother had so deeply wronged, and he wouldhave slunk past in the gloom; but seeing him thus alone returning to adesolated home, the prodigal was tempted to utter some words of farewell and ofregret. To his astonishment, however, Sir Richard passed swiftly on, with bodybent forward as one in the act of falling, and with eyes unconscious ofsurroundings, staring straight into the distance. Half-terrified at thisstrange appearance, Richard hurried onward, and at a turn of the path stumbledupon something which horribly accounted for the curious action of the old man.A dead body lay upon its face in the heather; beside it was a heavy riding whipstained at the handle with blood, and an open pocket-book. Richard took up thebook, and read, in gold letters on the cover, "Lord Bellasis."

The unhappy young man knelt down beside the body and raised it. The skullhad been fractured by a blow, but it seemed that life yet lingered. Overcomewith horror—for he could not doubt but that his mother's worst fears hadbeen realized—Richard knelt there holding his murdered father in hisarms, waiting until the murderer, whose name he bore, should have placedhimself beyond pursuit. It seemed an hour to his excited fancy before he saw alight pass along the front of the house he had quitted, and knew that SirRichard had safely reached his chamber. With some bewildered intention ofsummoning aid, he left the body and made towards the town. As he stepped out onthe path he heard voices, and presently some dozen men, one of whom held ahorse, burst out upon him, and, with sudden fury, seized and flung him to theground.

At first the young man, so rudely assailed, did not comprehend his owndanger. His mind, bent upon one hideous explanation of the crime, did not seeanother obvious one which had already occurred to the mind of the landlord ofthe Three Spaniards.

"God defend me!" cried Mr. Mogford, scanning by the pale light of the risingmoon the features of the murdered man, "but it is Lord Bellasis!—oh, youbloody villain! Jem, bring him along here, p'r'aps his lordship can recognizehim!"

"It was not I!" cried Richard Devine. "For God's sake, my lord say—"then he stopped abruptly, and being forced on his knees by his captors,remained staring at the dying man, in sudden and ghastly fear.

Those men in whom emotion has the effect of quickening circulation of theblood reason rapidly in moments of danger, and in the terrible instant when hiseyes met those of Lord Bellasis, Richard Devine had summed up the chances ofhis future fortune, and realized to the full his personal peril. The runawayhorse had given the alarm. The drinkers at the Spaniards' Inn had started tosearch the Heath, and had discovered a fellow in rough costume, whose personwas unknown to them, hastily quitting a spot where, beside a rifled pocket-bookand a blood-stained whip, lay a dying man.

The web of circ*mstantial evidence had enmeshed him. An hour ago escapewould have been easy. He would have had but to cry, "I am the son of SirRichard Devine. Come with me to yonder house, and I will prove to you that Ihave but just quitted it,"—to place his innocence beyond immediatequestion. That course of action was impossible now. Knowing Sir Richard as hedid, and believing, moreover, that in his raging passion the old man hadhimself met and murdered the destroyer of his honour, the son of Lord Bellasisand Lady Devine saw himself in a position which would compel him either tosacrifice himself, or to purchase a chance of safety at the price of hismother's dishonour and the death of the man whom his mother had deceived. Ifthe outcast son were brought a prisoner to North End House, SirRichard—now doubly oppressed of fate—would be certain to deny him;and he would be compelled, in self-defence, to reveal a story which would atonce bring his mother to open infamy, and send to the gallows the man who hadbeen for twenty years deceived—the man to whose kindness he owededucation and former fortune. He knelt, stupefied, unable to speak or move.

"Come," cried Mogford again; "say, my lord, is this the villain?"

Lord Bellasis rallied his failing senses, his glazing eyes stared into hisson's face with horrible eagerness; he shook his head, raised a feeble arm asthough to point elsewhere, and fell back dead.

"If you didn't murder him, you robbed him," growled Mogford, "and you shallsleep at Bow Street to-night. Tom, run on to meet the patrol, and leave word atthe Gate-house that I've a passenger for the coach!—Bring him on,Jack!—What's your name, eh?"

He repeated the rough question twice before his prisoner answered, but atlength Richard Devine raised a pale face which stern resolution had alreadyhardened into defiant manhood, and said "Dawes—Rufus Dawes."

*

His new life had begun already: for that night one, Rufus Dawes, chargedwith murder and robbery, lay awake in prison, waiting for the fortune of themorrow.

Two other men waited as eagerly. One, Mr. Lionel Crofton; the other, thehorseman who had appointment with the murdered Lord Bellasis under the shadowof the fir trees on Hampstead Heath. As for Sir Richard Devine, he waited forno one, for upon reaching his room he had fallen senseless in a fit ofapoplexy.

BOOK I.—THE SEA. 1827.

CHAPTER I. THE PRISON SHIP.

In the breathless stillness of a tropical afternoon, when the air was hotand heavy, and the sky brazen and cloudless, the shadow of the Malabar laysolitary on the surface of the glittering sea.

The sun—who rose on the left hand every morning a blazing ball, tomove slowly through the unbearable blue, until he sank fiery red in minglingglories of sky and ocean on the right hand—had just got low enough topeep beneath the awning that covered the poop-deck, and awaken a young man, inan undress military uniform, who was dozing on a coil of rope.

"Hang it!" said he, rising and stretching himself, with the weary sigh of aman who has nothing to do, "I must have been asleep"; and then, holding by astay, he turned about and looked down into the waist of the ship.

Save for the man at the wheel and the guard at the quarter-railing, he wasalone on the deck. A few birds flew round about the vessel, and seemed to passunder her stern windows only to appear again at her bows. A lazy albatross,with the white water flashing from his wings, rose with a dabbling sound toleeward, and in the place where he had been glided the hideous fin of asilently-swimming shark. The seams of the well-scrubbed deck were sticky withmelted pitch, and the brass plate of the compass-case sparkled in the sun likea jewel. There was no breeze, and as the clumsy ship rolled and lurched on theheaving sea, her idle sails flapped against her masts with a regularlyrecurring noise, and her bowsprit would seem to rise higher with the water'sswell, to dip again with a jerk that made each rope tremble and tauten. On theforecastle, some half-dozen soldiers, in all varieties of undress, were playingat cards, smoking, or watching the fishing-lines hanging over the catheads.

So far the appearance of the vessel differed in no wise from that of anordinary transport. But in the waist a curious sight presented itself. It wasas though one had built a cattle-pen there. At the foot of the foremast, and atthe quarter-deck, a strong barricade, loop-holed and furnished with doors foringress and egress, ran across the deck from bulwark to bulwark. Outside thiscattle-pen an armed sentry stood on guard; inside, standing, sitting, orwalking monotonously, within range of the shining barrels in the arm chest onthe poop, were some sixty men and boys, dressed in uniform grey. The men andboys were prisoners of the Crown, and the cattle-pen was their exercise ground.Their prison was down the main hatchway, on the 'tween decks, and thebarricade, continued down, made its side walls.

It was the fa*g end of the two hours' exercise graciously permitted eachafternoon by His Majesty King George the Fourth to prisoners of the Crown, andthe prisoners of the Crown were enjoying themselves. It was not, perhaps, sopleasant as under the awning on the poop-deck, but that sacred shade was onlyfor such great men as the captain and his officers, Surgeon Pine, LieutenantMaurice Frere, and, most important personages of all, Captain Vickers and hiswife.

That the convict leaning against the bulwarks would like to have been ableto get rid of his enemy the sun for a moment, was probable enough. Hiscompanions, sitting on the combings of the main-hatch, or crouched in carelessfashion on the shady side of the barricade, were laughing and talking, withblasphemous and obscene merriment hideous to contemplate; but he, with cappulled over his brows, and hands thrust into the pockets of his coarse greygarments, held aloof from their dismal joviality.

The sun poured his hottest rays on his head unheeded, and though everycranny and seam in the deck sweltered hot pitch under the fierce heat, the manstood there, motionless and morose, staring at the sleepy sea. He had stoodthus, in one place or another, ever since the groaning vessel had escaped fromthe rollers of the Bay of Biscay, and the miserable hundred and eightycreatures among whom he was classed had been freed from their irons, andallowed to sniff fresh air twice a day.

The low-browed, coarse-featured ruffians grouped about the deck cast many aleer of contempt at the solitary figure, but their remarks were confined togestures only. There are degrees in crime, and Rufus Dawes, the convictedfelon, who had but escaped the gallows to toil for all his life in irons, was aman of mark. He had been tried for the robbery and murder of Lord Bellasis. Thefriendless vagabond's lame story of finding on the Heath a dying man would nothave availed him, but for the curious fact sworn to by the landlord of theSpaniards' Inn, that the murdered nobleman had shaken his head when asked ifthe prisoner was his assassin. The vagabond was acquitted of the murder, butcondemned to death for the robbery, and London, who took some interest in thetrial, considered him fortunate when his sentence was commuted totransportation for life.

It was customary on board these floating prisons to keep each man's crime asecret from his fellows, so that if he chose, and the caprice of his gaolersallowed him, he could lead a new life in his adopted home, without beingtaunted with his former misdeeds. But, like other excellent devices, theexpedient was only a nominal one, and few out of the doomed hundred and eightywere ignorant of the offence which their companions had committed. The moreguilty boasted of their superiority in vice; the petty criminals swore thattheir guilt was blacker than it appeared. Moreover, a deed so bloodthirsty anda respite so unexpected, had invested the name of Rufus Dawes with a grimdistinction, which his superior mental abilities, no less than his haughtytemper and powerful frame, combined to support. A young man of two-and-twentyowning to no friends, and existing among them but by the fact of hiscriminality, he was respected and admired. The vilest of all the vile hordepenned between decks, if they laughed at his "fine airs" behind his back,cringed and submitted when they met him face to face—for in a convictship the greatest villain is the greatest hero, and the only nobilityacknowledged by that hideous commonwealth is that Order of the Halter which isconferred by the hand of the hangman.

The young man on the poop caught sight of the tall figure leaning againstthe bulwarks, and it gave him an excuse to break the monotony of hisemployment.

"Here, you!" he called with an oath, "get out of the gangway!" Rufus Daweswas not in the gangway—was, in fact, a good two feet from it, but at thesound of Lieutenant Frere's voice he started, and went obediently towards thehatchway.

"Touch your hat, you dog!" cries Frere, coming to the quarter-railing."Touch your damned hat! Do you hear?"

Rufus Dawes touched his cap, saluting in half military fashion. "I'll makesome of you fellows smart, if you don't have a care," went on the angry Frere,half to himself. "Insolent blackguards!"

And then the noise of the sentry, on the quarter-deck below him, groundingarms, turned the current of his thoughts. A thin, tall, soldier-like man, witha cold blue eye, and prim features, came out of the cuddy below, handing out afair-haired, affected, mincing lady, of middle age. Captain Vickers, of Mr.Frere's regiment, ordered for service in Van Diemen's Land, was bringing hislady on deck to get an appetite for dinner.

Mrs. Vickers was forty-two (she owned to thirty-three), and had been agarrison-belle for eleven weary years before she married prim John Vickers. Themarriage was not a happy one. Vickers found his wife extravagant, vain, andsnappish, and she found him harsh, disenchanted, and commonplace. A daughter,born two years after their marriage, was the only link that bound theill-assorted pair. Vickers idolized little Sylvia, and when the recommendationof a long sea-voyage for his failing health induced him to exchange into the—th, he insisted upon bringing the child with him, despite Mrs. Vickers'sreiterated objections on the score of educational difficulties. "He couldeducate her himself, if need be," he said; "and she should not stay athome."

So Mrs. Vickers, after a hard struggle, gave up the point and her dreams ofBath together, and followed her husband with the best grace she could muster.When fairly out to sea she seemed reconciled to her fate, and employed theintervals between scolding her daughter and her maid, in fascinating theboorish young Lieutenant, Maurice Frere.

Fascination was an integral portion of Julia Vickers's nature; admirationwas all she lived for: and even in a convict ship, with her husband at herelbow, she must flirt, or perish of mental inanition. There was no harm in thecreature. She was simply a vain, middle-aged woman, and Frere took herattentions for what they were worth. Moreover, her good feeling towards him wasuseful, for reasons which will shortly appear.

Running down the ladder, cap in hand, he offered her his assistance.

"Thank you, Mr. Frere. These horrid ladders. I really—he,he—quite tremble at them. Hot! Yes, dear me, most oppressive. John, thecamp-stool. Pray, Mr. Frere—oh, thank you! Sylvia! Sylvia! John, have youmy smelling salts? Still a calm, I suppose? These dreadful calms!"

This semi-fashionable slip-slop, within twenty yards of the wild beasts'den, on the other side of the barricade, sounded strange; but Mr. Frere thoughtnothing of it. Familiarity destroys terror, and the incurable flirt, flutteredher muslins, and played off her second-rate graces, under the noses of thegrinning convicts, with as much complacency as if she had been in a Chathamball-room. Indeed, if there had been nobody else near, it is not unlikely thatshe would have disdainfully fascinated the 'tween-decks, and made eyes at themost presentable of the convicts there.

Vickers, with a bow to Frere, saw his wife up the ladder, and then turnedfor his daughter.

She was a delicate-looking child of six years old, with blue eyes and brighthair. Though indulged by her father, and spoiled by her mother, the naturalsweetness of her disposition saved her from being disagreeable, and the effectsof her education as yet only showed themselves in a thousand imperiousprettinesses, which made her the darling of the ship. Little Miss Sylvia wasprivileged to go anywhere and do anything, and even convictism shut its foulmouth in her presence. Running to her father's side, the child chattered withall the volubility of flattered self-esteem. She ran hither and thither, askedquestions, invented answers, laughed, sang, gambolled, peered into thecompass-case, felt in the pockets of the man at the helm, put her tiny handinto the big palm of the officer of the watch, even ran down to thequarter-deck and pulled the coat-tails of the sentry on duty.

At last, tired of running about, she took a little striped leather ball fromthe bosom of her frock, and calling to her father, threw it up to him as hestood on the poop. He returned it, and, shouting with laughter, clapping herhands between each throw, the child kept up the game.

The convicts—whose slice of fresh air was nearly eaten—turnedwith eagerness to watch this new source of amusem*nt. Innocent laughter andchildish prattle were strange to them. Some smiled, and nodded with interest inthe varying fortunes of the game. One young lad could hardly restrain himselffrom applauding. It was as though, out of the sultry heat which brooded overthe ship, a cool breeze had suddenly arisen.

In the midst of this mirth, the officer of the watch, glancing round thefast crimsoning horizon, paused abruptly, and shading his eyes with his hand,looked out intently to the westward.

Frere, who found Mrs. Vickers's conversation a little tiresome, and had beenglancing from time to time at the companion, as though in expectation ofsomeone appearing, noticed the action.

"What is it, Mr. Best?"

"I don't know exactly. It looks to me like a cloud of smoke." And, takingthe glass, he swept the horizon.

"Let me see," said Frere; and he looked also.

On the extreme horizon, just to the left of the sinking sun, rested, orseemed to rest, a tiny black cloud. The gold and crimson, splashed all aboutthe sky, had overflowed around it, and rendered a clear view almostimpossible.

"I can't quite make it out," says Frere, handing back the telescope. "We cansee as soon as the sun goes down a little."

Then Mrs. Vickers must, of course, look also, and was prettily affectedabout the focus of the glass, applying herself to that instrument with muchgirlish giggling, and finally declaring, after shutting one eye with her fairhand, that positively she "could see nothing but sky, and believed that wickedMr. Frere was doing it on purpose."

By and by, Captain Blunt appeared, and, taking the glass from his officer,looked through it long and carefully. Then the mizentop was appealed to, anddeclared that he could see nothing; and at last the sun went down with a jerk,as though it had slipped through a slit in the sea, and the black spot,swallowed up in the gathering haze, was seen no more.

As the sun sank, the relief guard came up the after hatchway, and therelieved guard prepared to superintend the descent of the convicts. At thismoment Sylvia missed her ball, which, taking advantage of a sudden lurch of thevessel, hopped over the barricade, and rolled to the feet of Rufus Dawes, whowas still leaning, apparently lost in thought, against the side.

The bright spot of colour rolling across the white deck caught his eye;stooping mechanically, he picked up the ball, and stepped forward to return it.The door of the barricade was open and the sentry—a young soldier,occupied in staring at the relief guard—did not notice the prisoner passthrough it. In another instant he was on the sacred quarter-deck.

Heated with the game, her cheeks aglow, her eyes sparkling, her golden hairafloat, Sylvia had turned to leap after her plaything, but even as she turned,from under the shadow of the cuddy glided a rounded white arm; and a shapelyhand caught the child by the sash and drew her back. The next moment the youngman in grey had placed the toy in her hand.

Maurice Frere, descending the poop ladder, had not witnessed this littleincident; on reaching the deck, he saw only the unexplained presence of theconvict uniform.

"Thank you," said a voice, as Rufus Dawes stooped before the poutingSylvia.

The convict raised his eyes and saw a young girl of eighteen or nineteenyears of age, tall, and well developed, who, dressed in a loose-sleeved robe ofsome white material, was standing in the doorway. She had black hair, coiledaround a narrow and flat head, a small foot, white skin, well-shaped hands, andlarge dark eyes, and as she smiled at him, her scarlet lips showed her whiteeven teeth.

He knew her at once. She was Sarah Purfoy, Mrs. Vickers's maid, but he neverhad been so close to her before; and it seemed to him that he was in thepresence of some strange tropical flower, which exhaled a heavy andintoxicating perfume.

For an instant the two looked at each other, and then Rufus Dawes was seizedfrom behind by his collar, and flung with a shock upon the deck.

Leaping to his feet, his first impulse was to rush upon his assailant, buthe saw the ready bayonet of the sentry gleam, and he checked himself with aneffort, for his assailant was Mr. Maurice Frere.

"What the devil do you do here?" asked the gentleman with an oath. "Youlazy, skulking hound, what brings you here? If I catch you putting your foot onthe quarter-deck again, I'll give you a week in irons!"

Rufus Dawes, pale with rage and mortification, opened his mouth to justifyhimself, but he allowed the words to die on his lips. What was the use? "Godown below, and remember what I've told you," cried Frere; and comprehending atonce what had occurred, he made a mental minute of the name of the defaultingsentry.

The convict, wiping the blood from his face, turned on his heel without aword, and went back through the strong oak door into his den. Frere leantforward and took the girl's shapely hand with an easy gesture, but she drew itaway, with a flash of her black eyes.

"You coward!" she said.

The stolid soldier close beside them heard it, and his eye twinkled. Frerebit his thick lips with mortification, as he followed the girl into the cuddy.Sarah Purfoy, however, taking the astonished Sylvia by the hand, glided intoher mistress's cabin with a scornful laugh, and shut the door behind her.

CHAPTER II. SARAH PURFOY.

Convictism having been safely got under hatches, and put to bed in itsGovernment allowance of sixteen inches of space per man, cut a little short byexigencies of shipboard, the cuddy was wont to pass some not unpleasantevenings. Mrs. Vickers, who was poetical and owned a guitar, was also musicaland sang to it. Captain Blunt was a jovial, coarse fellow; Surgeon Pine had amania for story-telling; while if Vickers was sometimes dull, Frere was alwayshearty. Moreover, the table was well served, and what with dinner, tobacco,whist, music, and brandy and water, the sultry evenings passed away with arapidity of which the wild beasts 'tween decks, cooped by sixes in berths of amere five feet square, had no conception.

On this particular evening, however, the cuddy was dull. Dinner fell flat,and conversation languished.

"No signs of a breeze, Mr. Best?" asked Blunt, as the first officer came inand took his seat.

"None, sir."

"These—he, he!—awful calms," says Mrs. Vickers. "A week, is itnot, Captain Blunt?"

"Thirteen days, mum," growled Blunt.

"I remember, off the Coromandel coast," put in cheerful Pine, "when we hadthe plague in the Rattlesnake—"

"Captain Vickers, another glass of wine?" cried Blunt, hastening to cut theanecdote short.

"Thank you, no more. I have the headache."

"Headache—um—don't wonder at it, going down among those fellows.It is infamous the way they crowd these ships. Here we have over two hundredsouls on board, and not boat room for half of 'em."

"Two hundred souls! Surely not," says Vickers. "By the King'sRegulations—"

"One hundred and eighty convicts, fifty soldiers, thirty in ship's crew, alltold, and—how many?—one, two three—seven in the cuddy. Howmany do you make that?"

"We are just a little crowded this time," says Best.

"It is very wrong," says Vickers, pompously. "Very wrong. By the King'sRegulations—"

But the subject of the King's Regulations was even more distasteful to thecuddy than Pine's interminable anecdotes, and Mrs. Vickers hastened to changethe subject.

"Are you not heartily tired of this dreadful life, Mr. Frere?"

"Well, it is not exactly the life I had hoped to lead," said Frere, rubbinga freckled hand over his stubborn red hair; "but I must make the best ofit."

"Yes, indeed," said the lady, in that subdued manner with which one commentsupon a well-known accident, "it must have been a great shock to you to be sosuddenly deprived of so large a fortune."

"Not only that, but to find that the black sheep who got it all sailed forIndia within a week of my uncle's death! Lady Devine got a letter from him onthe day of the funeral to say that he had taken his passage in the Hydaspes forCalcutta, and never meant to come back again!"

"Sir Richard Devine left no other children?"

"No, only this mysterious Dick, whom I never saw, but who must have hatedme."

"Dear, dear! These family quarrels are dreadful things. Poor Lady Devine, tolose in one day a husband and a son!"

"And the next morning to hear of the murder of her cousin! You know that weare connected with the Bellasis family. My aunt's father married a sister ofthe second Lord Bellasis."

"Indeed. That was a horrible murder. So you think that the dreadful man youpointed out the other day did it?"

"The jury seemed to think not," said Mr. Frere, with a laugh; "but I don'tknow anybody else who could have a motive for it. However, I'll go on deck andhave a smoke."

"I wonder what induced that old hunks of a shipbuilder to try to cut off hisonly son in favour of a cub of that sort," said Surgeon Pine to Captain Vickersas the broad back of Mr. Maurice Frere disappeared up the companion.

"Some boyish follies abroad, I believe; self-made men are always impatientof extravagance. But it is hard upon Frere. He is not a bad sort of fellow forall his roughness, and when a young man finds that an accident deprives him ofa quarter of a million of money and leaves him without a sixpence beyond hiscommission in a marching regiment under orders for a convict settlement, he hassome reason to rail against fate."

"How was it that the son came in for the money after all, then?"

"Why, it seems that when old Devine returned from sending for his lawyer toalter his will, he got a fit of apoplexy, the result of his rage, I suppose,and when they opened his room door in the morning they found him dead."

"And the son's away on the sea somewhere," said Mr. Vickers "and knowsnothing of his good fortune. It is quite a romance."

"I am glad that Frere did not get the money," said Pine, grimly sticking tohis prejudice; "I have seldom seen a face I liked less, even among my yellowjackets yonder."

"Oh dear, Dr. Pine! How can you?" interjected Mrs. Vickers. "'Pon my soul,ma'am, some of them have mixed in good society, I can tell you. There'spickpockets and swindlers down below who have lived in the best company."

"Dreadful wretches!" cried Mrs. Vickers, shaking out her skirts. "John, Iwill go on deck."

At the signal, the party rose.

"Ecod, Pine," says Captain Blunt, as the two were left alone together, "youand I are always putting our foot into it!"

"Women are always in the way aboard ship," returned Pine.

"Ah! Doctor, you don't mean that, I know," said a rich soft voice at hiselbow.

It was Sarah Purfoy emerging from her cabin.

"Here is the wench!" cries Blunt. "We are talking of your eyes, my dear.""Well, they'll bear talking about, captain, won't they?" asked she, turningthem full upon him.

"By the Lord, they will!" says Blunt, smacking his hand on the table."They're the finest eyes I've seen in my life, and they've got the reddest lipsunder 'm that—"

"Let me pass, Captain Blunt, if you please. Thank you, doctor."

And before the admiring commander could prevent her, she modestly swept outof the cuddy.

"She's a fine piece of goods, eh?" asked Blunt, watching her. "A spice o'the devil in her, too."

Old Pine took a huge pinch of snuff.

"Devil! I tell you what it is, Blunt. I don't know where Vickers picked herup, but I'd rather trust my life with the worst of those ruffians 'tween decks,than in her keeping, if I'd done her an injury."

Blunt laughed.

"I don't believe she'd think much of sticking a man, either!" he said,rising. "But I must go on deck, doctor." Pine followed him more slowly. "Idon't pretend to know much about women," he said to himself, "but that girl'sgot a story of her own, or I'm much mistaken. What brings her on board thisship as lady's-maid is more than I can fathom." And as, sticking his pipebetween his teeth, he walked down the now deserted deck to the main hatchway,and turned to watch the white figure gliding up and down the poop-deck, he sawit joined by another and a darker one, he muttered, "She's after no good, I'llswear."

At that moment his arm was touched by a soldier in undress uniform, who hadcome up the hatchway. "What is it?"

The man drew himself up and saluted.

"If you please, doctor, one of the prisoners is taken sick, and as thedinner's over, and he's pretty bad, I ventured to disturb your honour."

"You ass!" says Pine—who, like many gruff men, had a good heart underhis rough shell—"why didn't you tell me before?" and knocking the ashesout of his barely-lighted pipe, he stopped that implement with a twist of paperand followed his summoner down the hatchway.

In the meantime the woman who was the object of the grim old fellow'ssuspicions was enjoying the comparative coolness of the night air. Her mistressand her mistress's daughter had not yet come out of their cabin, and the menhad not yet finished their evening's tobacco. The awning had been removed, thestars were shining in the moonless sky, the poop guard had shifted itself tothe quarter-deck, and Miss Sarah Purfoy was walking up and down the desertedpoop, in close tête-à-tête with no less a person thanCaptain Blunt himself. She had passed and repassed him twice silently, and atthe third turn the big fellow, peering into the twilight ahead somewhatuneasily, obeyed the glitter of her great eyes, and joined her.

"You weren't put out, my wench," he asked, "at what I said to youbelow?"

She affected surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, at my—at what I—at my rudeness, there! For I was a bitrude, I admit."

"I? Oh dear, no. You were not rude."

"Glad you think so!" returned Phineas Blunt, a little ashamed at what lookedlike a confession of weakness on his part.

"You would have been—if I had let you."

"How do you know?"

"I saw it in your face. Do you think a woman can't see in a man's face whenhe's going to insult her?"

"Insult you, hey! Upon my word!"

"Yes, insult me. You're old enough to be my father, Captain Blunt, butyou've no right to kiss me, unless I ask you."

"Haw, haw!" laughed Blunt. "I like that. Ask me! Egad, I wish you would, youblack-eyed minx!"

"So would other people, I have no doubt." "That soldier officer, forinstance. Hey, Miss Modesty? I've seen him looking at you as though he'd liketo try."

The girl flashed at him with a quick side glance.

"You mean Lieutenant Frere, I suppose. Are you jealous of him?"

"Jealous! Why, damme, the lad was only breeched the other day. Jealous!"

"I think you are—and you've no need to be. He is a stupid booby,though he is Lieutenant Frere."

"So he is. You are right there, by the Lord."

Sarah Purfoy laughed a low, full-toned laugh, whose sound made Blunt's pulsetake a jump forward, and sent the blood tingling down to his fingers ends.

"Captain Blunt," said she, "you're going to do a very silly thing."

He came close to her and tried to take her hand.

"What?"

She answered by another question.

"How old are you?"

"Forty-two, if you must know."

"Oh! And you are going to fall in love with a girl of nineteen."

"Who is that?"

"Myself!" she said, giving him her hand and smiling at him with her rich redlips.

The mizen hid them from the man at the wheel, and the twilight of tropicalstars held the main-deck. Blunt felt the breath of this strange woman warm onhis cheek, her eyes seemed to wax and wane, and the hard, small hand he heldburnt like fire.

"I believe you are right," he cried. "I am half in love with youalready."

She gazed at him with a contemptuous sinking of her heavily fringed eyelids,and withdrew her hand.

"Then don't get to the other half, or you'll regret it."

"Shall I?" asked Blunt. "That's my affair. Come, you little vixen, give methat kiss you said I was going to ask you for below," and he caught her in hisarms.

In an instant she had twisted herself free, and confronted him with flashingeyes.

"You dare!" she cried. "Kiss me by force! Pooh! you make love like aschoolboy. If you can make me like you, I'll kiss you as often as you will. Ifyou can't, keep your distance, please."

Blunt did not know whether to laugh or be angry at this rebuff. He wasconscious that he was in rather a ridiculous position, and so decided tolaugh.

"You're a spitfire, too. What must I do to make you like me?"

She made him a curtsy.

"That is your affair," she said; and as the head of Mr. Frere appeared abovethe companion, Blunt walked aft, feeling considerably bewildered, and yet notdispleased.

"She's a fine girl, by jingo," he said, co*cking his cap, "and I'm hanged ifshe ain't sweet upon me."

And then the old fellow began to whistle softly to himself as he paced thedeck, and to glance towards the man who had taken his place with no friendlyeyes. But a sort of shame held him as yet, and he kept aloof.

Maurice Frere's greeting was short enough.

"Well, Sarah," he said, "have you got out of your temper?"

She frowned.

"What did you strike the man for? He did you no harm."

"He was out of his place. What business had he to come aft? One must keepthese wretches down, my girl."

"Or they will be too much for you, eh? Do you think one man could capture aship, Mr. Maurice?"

"No, but one hundred might."

"Nonsense! What could they do against the soldiers? There are fiftysoldiers."

"So there are, but—"

"But what?"

"Well, never mind. It's against the rules, and I won't have it."

"'Not according to the King's Regulations,' as Captain Vickers wouldsay."

Frere laughed at her imitation of his pompous captain.

"You are a strange girl; I can't make you out. Come," and he took her hand,"tell me what you are really."

"Will you promise not to tell?"

"Of course."

"Upon your word?"

"Upon my word."

"Well, then—but you'll tell?"

"Not I. Come, go on."

"Lady's-maid in the family of a gentleman going abroad."

"Sarah, you can't be serious?" "I am serious. That was the advertisem*nt Ianswered."

"But I mean what you have been. You were not a lady's-maid all yourlife?"

She pulled her shawl closer round her and shivered.

"People are not born ladies' maids, I suppose?"

"Well, who are you, then? Have you no friends? What have you been?"

She looked up into the young man's face—a little less harsh at thatmoment than it was wont to be—and creeping closer to him,whispered—"Do you love me, Maurice?"

He raised one of the little hands that rested on the taffrail, and, undercover of the darkness, kissed it.

"You know I do," he said. "You may be a lady's-maid or what you like, butyou are the loveliest woman I ever met."

She smiled at his vehemence.

"Then, if you love me, what does it matter?" "If you loved me, you wouldtell me," said he, with a quickness which surprised himself.

"But I have nothing to tell, and I don't love you—yet."

He let her hand fall with an impatient gesture; and at that momentBlunt—who could restrain himself no longer—came up.

"Fine night, Mr. Frere?"

"Yes, fine enough."

"No signs of a breeze yet, though."

"No, not yet."

Just then, from out of the violet haze that hung over the horizon, a strangeglow of light broke.

"Hallo," cries Frere, "did you see that?"

All had seen it, but they looked for its repetition in vain. Blunt rubbedhis eyes.

"I saw it," he said, "distinctly. A flash of light." They strained theireyes to pierce through the obscurity.

"Best saw something like it before dinner. There must be thunder in theair."

At that instant a thin streak of light shot up and then sank again. Therewas no mistaking it this time, and a simultaneous exclamation burst from all ondeck. From out the gloom which hung over the horizon rose a column of flamethat lighted up the night for an instant, and then sunk, leaving a dull redspark upon the water.

"It's a ship on fire," cried Frere.

CHAPTER III. THE MONOTONY BREAKS.

They looked again, the tiny spark still burned, and immediately over itthere grew out of the darkness a crimson spot, that hung like a lurid star inthe air. The soldiers and sailors on the forecastle had seen it also, and in amoment the whole vessel was astir. Mrs. Vickers, with little Sylvia clinging toher dress, came up to share the new sensation; and at the sight of hermistress, the modest maid withdrew discreetly from Frere's side. Not that therewas any need to do so; no one heeded her. Blunt, in his professionalexcitement, had already forgotten her presence, and Frere was in earnestconversation with Vickers.

"Take a boat?" said that gentleman. "Certainly, my dear Frere, by all means.That is to say, if the captain does not object, and it is not contrary to theRegulations."

"Captain, you'll lower a boat, eh? We may save some of the poor devils,"cries Frere, his heartiness of body reviving at the prospect of excitement.

"Boat!" said Blunt, "why, she's twelve miles off and more, and there's not abreath o' wind!"

"But we can't let 'em roast like chestnuts!" cried the other, as the glow inthe sky broadened and became more intense.

"What is the good of a boat?" said Pine. "The long-boat only holds thirtymen, and that's a big ship yonder."

"Well, take two boats—three boats! By Heaven, you'll never let 'emburn alive without stirring a finger to save 'em!"

"They've got their own boats," says Blunt, whose coolness was in strongcontrast to the young officer's impetuosity; "and if the fire gains, they'lltake to 'em, you may depend. In the meantime, we'll show 'em that there'ssomeone near 'em." And as he spoke, a blue light flared hissing into thenight.

"There, they'll see that, I expect!" he said, as the ghastly flame rose,extinguishing the stars for a moment, only to let them appear again brighter ina darker heaven.

"Mr. Best—lower and man the quarter-boats! Mr. Frere—you can goin one, if you like, and take a volunteer or two from those grey jackets ofyours amidships. I shall want as many hands as I can spare to man the long-boatand cutter, in case we want 'em. Steady there, lads! Easy!" and as the firsteight men who could reach the deck parted to the larboard and starboardquarter-boats, Frere ran down on the main-deck.

Mrs. Vickers, of course, was in the way, and gave a genteel scream as Bluntrudely pushed past her with a scarce-muttered apology; but her maid wasstanding erect and motionless, by the quarter-railing, and as the captainpaused for a moment to look round him, he saw her dark eyes fixed on himadmiringly. He was, as he said, over forty-two, burly and grey-haired, but heblushed like a girl under her approving gaze. Nevertheless, he said only, "Thatwench is a trump!" and swore a little.

Meanwhile Maurice Frere had passed the sentry and leapt down into the 'tweendecks. At his nod, the prison door was thrown open. The air was hot, and thatstrange, horrible odour peculiar to closely-packed human bodies filled theplace. It was like coming into a full stable.

He ran his eye down the double tier of bunks which lined the side of theship, and stopped at the one opposite him.

There seemed to have been some disturbance there lately, for instead of thesix pair of feet which should have protruded therefrom, the gleam of thebull's-eye showed but four.

"What's the matter here, sentry?" he asked.

"Prisoner ill, sir. Doctor sent him to hospital."

"But there should be two."

The other came from behind the break of the berths. It was Rufus Dawes. Heheld by the side as he came, and saluted.

"I felt sick, sir, and was trying to get the scuttle open."

The heads were all raised along the silent line, and eyes and ears wereeager to see and listen. The double tier of bunks looked terribly like a row ofwild beast cages at that moment.

Maurice Frere stamped his foot indignantly.

"Sick! What are you sick about, you malingering dog? I'll give you somethingto sweat the sickness out of you. Stand on one side here!"

Rufus Dawes, wondering, obeyed. He seemed heavy and dejected, and passed hishand across his forehead, as though he would rub away a pain there.

"Which of you fellows can handle an oar?" Frere went on. "There, curse you,I don't want fifty! Three'll do. Come on now, make haste!"

The heavy door clashed again, and in another instant the four "volunteers"were on deck. The crimson glow was turning yellow now, and spreading over thesky.

"Two in each boat!" cries Blunt. "I'll burn a blue light every hour for you,Mr. Best; and take care they don't swamp you. Lower away, lads!" As the secondprisoner took the oar of Frere's boat, he uttered a groan and fell forward,recovering himself instantly. Sarah Purfoy, leaning over the side, saw theoccurrence.

"What is the matter with that man?" she said. "Is he ill?"

Pine was next to her, and looked out instantly. "It's that big fellow in No.10," he cried. "Here, Frere!"

But Frere heard him not. He was intent on the beacon that gleamed everbrighter in the distance. "Give way, my lads!" he shouted. And amid a cheerfrom the ship, the two boats shot out of the bright circle of the blue light,and disappeared into the darkness.

Sarah Purfoy looked at Pine for an explanation, but he turned abruptly away.For a moment the girl paused, as if in doubt; and then, ere his retreatingfigure turned to retrace its steps, she cast a quick glance around, andslipping down the ladder, made her way to the 'tween decks.

The iron-studded oak barricade that, loop-holed for musketry, and perforatedwith plated trapdoor for sterner needs, separated soldiers from prisoners, wasclose to her left hand, and the sentry at its padlocked door looked at herinquiringly. She laid her little hand on his big rough one—a sentry isbut mortal—and opened her brown eyes at him.

"The hospital," she said. "The doctor sent me"; and before he could answer,her white figure vanished down the hatch, and passed round the bulkhead, behindwhich lay the sick man.

CHAPTER IV. THE HOSPITAL.

The hospital was nothing more nor less than a partitioned portion of thelower deck, filched from the space allotted to the soldiers. It ran fore andaft, coming close to the stern windows, and was, in fact, a sort of artificialstern cabin. At a pinch, it might have held a dozen men.

Though not so hot as in the prison, the atmosphere of the lower deck wasclose and unhealthy, and the girl, pausing to listen to the subdued hum ofconversation coming from the soldiers' berths, turned strangely sick and giddy.She drew herself up, however, and held out her hand to a man who came rapidlyacross the misshapen shadows, thrown by the sulkily swinging lantern, to meether. It was the young soldier who had been that day sentry at the convictgangway.

"Well, miss," he said, "I am here, yer see, waiting for yer."

"You are a good boy, Miles; but don't you think I'm worth waiting for?"

Miles grinned from ear to ear.

"Indeed you be," said he.

Sarah Purfoy frowned, and then smiled.

"Come here, Miles; I've got something for you."

Miles came forward, grinning harder.

The girl produced a small object from the pocket of her dress. If Mrs.Vickers had seen it she would probably have been angry, for it was nothing lessthan the captain's brandy-flask.

"Drink," said she. "It's the same as they have upstairs, so it won't hurtyou."

The fellow needed no pressing. He took off half the contents of the bottleat a gulp, and then, fetching a long breath, stood staring at her.

"That's prime!"

"Is it? I dare say it is." She had been looking at him with unaffecteddisgust as he drank. "Brandy is all you men understand." Miles—stillsucking in his breath—came a pace closer.

"Not it," said he, with a twinkle in his little pig's eyes. "I understandsomething else, miss, I can tell yer."

The tone of the sentence seemed to awaken and remind her of her errand inthat place. She laughed as loudly and as merrily as she dared, and laid herhand on the speaker's arm. The boy—for he was but a boy, one of thosemany ill-reared country louts who leave the plough-tail for the musket, and,for a shilling a day, experience all the "pomp and circ*mstance of gloriouswar"—reddened to the roots of his closely-cropped hair.

"There, that's quite close enough. You're only a common soldier, Miles, andyou mustn't make love to me."

"Not make love to yer!" says Miles. "What did yer tell me to meet yer herefor then?"

She laughed again.

"What a practical animal you are! Suppose I had something to say toyou?"

Miles devoured her with his eyes.

"It's hard to marry a soldier," he said, with a recruit's proud intonationof the word; "but yer might do worse, miss, and I'll work for yer like a slave,I will."

She looked at him with curiosity and pleasure. Though her time was evidentlyprecious, she could not resist the temptation of listening to praises ofherself.

"I know you're above me, Miss Sarah. You're a lady, but I love yer, I do,and you drives me wild with yer tricks."

"Do I?"

"Do yer? Yes, yer do. What did yer come an' make up to me for, and then gosweetheartin' with them others?"

"What others?"

"Why, the cuddy folk—the skipper, and the parson, and that Frere. Isee yer walkin' the deck wi' un o' nights. Dom 'um, I'd put a bullet throughhis red head as soon as look at un."

"Hush! Miles dear—they'll hear you."

Her face was all aglow, and her expanded nostrils throbbed. Beautiful as theface was, it had a tigerish look about it at that moment.

Encouraged by the epithet, Miles put his arm round her slim waist, just asBlunt had done, but she did not resent it so abruptly. Miles had promisedmore.

"Hush!" she whispered, with admirably-acted surprise—"I heard anoise!" and as the soldier started back, she smoothed her dresscomplacently.

"There is no one!" cried he.

"Isn't there? My mistake, then. Now come here, Miles."

Miles obeyed.

"Who is in the hospital?"

"I dunno."

"Well, I want to go in."

Miles scratched his head, and grinned.

"Yer carn't."

"Why not? You've let me in before." "Against the doctor's orders. He told mespecial to let no one in but himself."

"Nonsense."

"It ain't nonsense. There was a convict brought in to-night, and nobody's togo near him."

"A convict!" She grew more interested. "What's the matter with him?"

"Dunno. But he's to be kep' quiet until old Pine comes down."

She became authoritative.

"Come, Miles, let me go in."

"Don't ask me, miss. It's against orders, and—"

"Against orders? Why, you were blustering about shooting people justnow."

The badgered Miles grew angry. "Was I? Bluster or no bluster, you don't goin." She turned away. "Oh, very well. If this is all the thanks I get forwasting my time down here, I shall go on deck again."

Miles became uneasy.

"There are plenty of agreeable people there."

Miles took a step after her.

"Mr. Frere will let me go in, I dare say, if I ask him."

Miles swore under his breath.

"Dom Mr. Frere! Go in if yer like," he said. "I won't stop yer, but rememberwhat I'm doin' of."

She turned again at the foot of the ladder, and came quickly back.

"That's a good lad. I knew you would not refuse me"; and smiling at the poorlad she was befooling, she passed into the cabin.

There was no lantern, and from the partially-blocked stern windows came onlya dim, vaporous light. The dull ripple of the water as the ship rocked on theslow swell of the sea made a melancholy sound, and the sick man's heavybreathing seemed to fill the air. The slight noise made by the opening doorroused him; he rose on his elbow and began to mutter. Sarah Purfoy paused inthe doorway to listen, but she could make nothing of the low, uneasy murmuring.Raising her arm, conspicuous by its white sleeve in the gloom, she beckonedMiles.

"The lantern," she whispered, "bring me the lantern!"

He unhooked it from the rope where it swung, and brought it towards her. Atthat moment the man in the bunk sat up erect, and twisted himself towards thelight. "Sarah!" he cried, in shrill sharp tones. "Sarah!" and swooped with alean arm through the dusk, as though to seize her.

The girl leapt out of the cabin like a panther, struck the lantern out ofher lover's hand, and was back at the bunk-head in a moment. The convict was ayoung man of about four-and-twenty. His hands—clutched convulsively nowon the blankets—were small and well-shaped, and the unshaven chinbristled with promise of a strong beard. His wild black eyes glared with allthe fire of delirium, and as he gasped for breath, the sweat stood in beads onhis sallow forehead.

The aspect of the man was sufficiently ghastly, and Miles, drawing back withan oath, did not wonder at the terror which had seized Mrs. Vickers's maid.With open mouth and agonized face, she stood in the centre of the cabin,lantern in hand, like one turned to stone, gazing at the man on the bed.

"Ecod, he be a sight!" says Miles, at length. "Come away, miss, and shut thedoor. He's raving, I tell yer."

The sound of his voice recalled her.

She dropped the lantern, and rushed to the bed.

"You fool; he's choking, can't you see? Water! give me water!"

And wreathing her arms around the man's head, she pulled it down on herbosom, rocking it there, half savagely, to and fro.

Awed into obedience by her voice, Miles dipped a pannikin into a smallpuncheon, cleated in the corner of the cabin, and gave it her; and, withoutthanking him, she placed it to the sick prisoner's lips. He drank greedily, andclosed his eyes with a grateful sigh.

Just then the quick ears of Miles heard the jingle of arms. "Here's thedoctor coming, miss!" he cried. "I hear the sentry saluting. Come away!Quick!"

She seized the lantern, and, opening the horn slide, extinguished it.

"Say it went out," she said in a fierce whisper, "and hold your tongue.Leave me to manage."

She bent over the convict as if to arrange his pillow, and then glided outof the cabin, just as Pine descended the hatchway.

"Hallo!" cried he, stumbling, as he missed his footing; "where's thelight?"

"Here, sir," says Miles, fumbling with the lantern. "It's all right, sir. Itwent out, sir."

"Went out! What did you let it go out for, you blockhead!" growled theunsuspecting Pine. "Just like you boobies! What is the use of a light if it'goes out', eh?" As he groped his way, with outstretched arms, in the darkness,Sarah Purfoy slipped past him unnoticed, and gained the upper deck.

CHAPTER V. THE BARRACOON.

In the prison of the 'tween decks reigned a darkness pregnant with murmurs.The sentry at the entrance to the hatchway was supposed to "prevent theprisoners from making a noise," but he put a very liberal interpretation uponthe clause, and so long as the prisoners refrained from shouting, yelling, andfighting—eccentricities in which they sometimes indulged—he did notdisturb them. This course of conduct was dictated by prudence, no less than byconvenience, for one sentry was but little over so many; and the convicts, ifpressed too hard, would raise a sort of bestial boo-hoo, in which all voiceswere confounded, and which, while it made noise enough and to spare, utterlyprecluded individual punishment. One could not flog a hundred and eighty men,and it was impossible to distinguish any particular offender. So, in virtue ofthis last appeal, convictism had established a tacit right to converse inwhispers, and to move about inside its oaken cage.

To one coming in from the upper air, the place would have seemed in pitchydarkness, but the convict eye, accustomed to the sinister twilight, was enabledto discern surrounding objects with tolerable distinctness. The prison wasabout fifty feet long and fifty feet wide, and ran the full height of the'tween decks, viz., about five feet ten inches high. The barricade wasloop-holed here and there, and the planks were in some places wide enough toadmit a musket barrel. On the aft side, next the soldiers' berths, was a trapdoor, like the stoke-hole of a furnace. At first sight this appeared to becontrived for the humane purpose of ventilation, but a second glance dispelledthis weak conclusion. The opening was just large enough to admit the muzzle ofa small howitzer, secured on the deck below. In case of a mutiny, the soldierscould sweep the prison from end to end with grape shot. Such fresh air as therewas, filtered through the loopholes, and came, in somewhat larger quantity,through a wind-sail passed into the prison from the hatchway. But thewind-sail, being necessarily at one end only of the place, the air it broughtwas pretty well absorbed by the twenty or thirty lucky fellows near it, and theother hundred and fifty did not come so well off. The scuttles were open,certainly, but as the row of bunks had been built against them, the air theybrought was the peculiar property of such men as occupied the berths into whichthey penetrated. These berths were twenty-eight in number, each containing sixmen. They ran in a double tier round three sides of the prison, twenty at eachside, and eight affixed to that portion of the forward barricade opposite thedoor. Each berth was presumed to be five feet six inches square, but thenecessities of stowage had deprived them of six inches, and even under thatpressure twelve men were compelled to sleep on the deck. Pine did notexaggerate when he spoke of the custom of overcrowding convict ships; and as hewas entitled to half a guinea for every man he delivered alive at Hobart Town,he had some reason to complain.

When Frere had come down, an hour before, the prisoners were all snuglybetween their blankets. They were not so now; though, at the first clink of thebolts, they would be back again in their old positions, to all appearancessound asleep. As the eye became accustomed to the foetid duskiness of theprison, a strange picture presented itself. Groups of men, in all imaginableattitudes, were lying, standing, sitting, or pacing up and down. It was thescene on the poop-deck over again; only, here being no fear of restrainingkeepers, the wild beasts were a little more free in their movements. It isimpossible to convey, in words, any idea of the hideous phantasmagoria ofshifting limbs and faces which moved through the evil-smelling twilight of thisterrible prison-house. Callot might have drawn it, Dante might have suggestedit, but a minute attempt to describe its horrors would but disgust. There aredepths in humanity which one cannot explore, as there are mephitic caverns intowhich one dare not penetrate.

Old men, young men, and boys, stalwart burglars and highway robbers, sleptside by side with wizened pickpockets or cunning-featured area-sneaks. Theforger occupied the same berth with the body-snatcher. The man of educationlearned strange secrets of house-breakers' craft, and the vulgar ruffian of St.Giles took lessons of self-control from the keener intellect of theprofessional swindler. The fraudulent clerk and the flash "cracksman"interchanged experiences. The smuggler's stories of lucky ventures andsuccessful runs were capped by the footpad's reminiscences of foggy nights andstolen watches. The poacher, grimly thinking of his sick wife and orphanedchildren, would start as the night-house ruffian clapped him on the shoulderand bade him, with a curse, to take good heart and "be a man." The fast shopboywhose love of fine company and high living had brought him to this pass, hadshaken off the first shame that was on him, and listened eagerly to thenarratives of successful vice that fell so glibly from the lips of his oldercompanions. To be transported seemed no such uncommon fate. The old fellowslaughed, and wagged their grey heads with all the glee of past experience, andlistening youth longed for the time when it might do likewise. Society was thecommon foe, and magistrates, gaolers, and parsons were the natural prey of allnoteworthy mankind. Only fools were honest, only cowards kissed the rod, andfailed to meditate revenge on that world of respectability which had wrongedthem. Each new-comer was one more recruit to the ranks of ruffianism, and not aman penned in that reeking den of infamy but became a sworn hater of law,order, and "free-men." What he might have been before mattered not. He was nowa prisoner, and—thrust into a suffocating barracoon, herded with thefoulest of mankind, with all imaginable depths of blasphemy and indecencysounded hourly in his sight and hearing—he lost his self-respect, andbecame what his gaolers took him to be—a wild beast to be locked underbolts and bars, lest he should break out and tear them.

The conversation ran upon the sudden departure of the four. What could theywant with them at that hour?

"I tell you there's something up on deck," says one to the group nearesthim. "Don't you hear all that rumbling and rolling?"

"What did they lower boats for? I heard the dip o' the oars."

"Don't know, mate. P'r'aps a burial job," hazarded a short, stout fellow, asa sort of happy suggestion.

"One of those coves in the parlour!" said another; and a laugh followed thespeech.

"No such luck. You won't hang your jib for them yet awhile. More like theskipper agone fishin'."

"The skipper don't go fishin', yer fool. What would he dofishin'?—special in the middle o' the night."

"That 'ud be like old Dovery, eh?" says a fifth, alluding to an oldgrey-headed fellow, who—a returned convict—was again under sentencefor body-snatching.

"Ay," put in a young man, who had the reputation of being the smartest"crow" (the "look-out" man of a burglars' gang) in London—"'fishers ofmen,' as the parson says."

The snuffling imitation of a Methodist preacher was good, and there wasanother laugh.

Just then a miserable little co*ckney pickpocket, feeling his way to thedoor, fell into the party.

A volley of oaths and kicks received him.

"I beg your pardon, gen'l'men," cries the miserable wretch, "but I wanth'air."

"Go to the barber's and buy a wig, then!" says the "Crow", elated at thesuccess of his last sally.

"Oh, sir, my back!"

"Get up!" groaned someone in the darkness. "Oh, Lord, I'm smothering! Here,sentry!"

"Vater!" cried the little co*ckney. "Give us a drop o' vater, for mercy'ssake. I haven't moist'ned my chaffer this blessed day."

"Half a gallon a day, bo', and no more," says a sailor next him.

"Yes, what have yer done with yer half-gallon, eh?" asked the Crowderisively. "Someone stole it," said the sufferer.

"He's been an' blued it," squealed someone. "Been an' blued it to buy aSunday veskit with! Oh, ain't he a vicked young man?" And the speaker hid hishead under the blankets, in humorous affectation of modesty.

All this time the miserable little co*ckney—he was a tailor bytrade—had been grovelling under the feet of the Crow and hiscompanions.

"Let me h'up, gents" he implored—"let me h'up. I feel as if I shoulddie—I do."

"Let the gentleman up," says the humorist in the bunk. "Don't yer see hiskerridge is avaitin' to take him to the Hopera?"

The conversation had got a little loud, and, from the topmost bunk on thenear side, a bullet head protruded.

"Ain't a cove to get no sleep?" cried a gruff voice. "My blood, if I have toturn out, I'll knock some of your empty heads together."

It seemed that the speaker was a man of mark, for the noise ceasedinstantly; and, in the lull which ensued, a shrill scream broke from thewretched tailor.

"Help! they're killing me! Ah-h-h-!"

"Wot's the matter," roared the silencer of the riot, jumping from his berth,and scattering the Crow and his companions right and left. "Let him be, can'tyer?"

"H'air!" cried the poor devil—"h'air; I'm fainting!"

Just then there came another groan from the man in the opposite bunk. "Well,I'm blessed!" said the giant, as he held the gasping tailor by the collar andglared round him. "Here's a pretty go! All the blessed chickens ha' got thecroup!"

The groaning of the man in the bunk redoubled.

"Pass the word to the sentry," says someone more humane than the rest. "Ah,"says the humorist, "pass him out; it'll be one the less. We'd rather have hisroom than his company."

"Sentry, here's a man sick."

But the sentry knew his duty better than to reply. He was a young soldier,but he had been well informed of the artfulness of convict stratagems; and,moreover, Captain Vickers had carefully apprised him "that by the King'sRegulations, he was forbidden to reply to any question or communicationaddressed to him by a convict, but, in the event of being addressed, was tocall the non-commissioned officer on duty." Now, though he was within easyhailing distance of the guard on the quarter-deck, he felt a naturaldisinclination to disturb those gentlemen merely for the sake of a sickconvict, and knowing that, in a few minutes, the third relief would come onduty, he decided to wait until then.

In the meantime the tailor grew worse, and began to moan dismally.

"Here! 'ullo!" called out his supporter, in dismay. "Hold up 'ere! Wot'swrong with yer? Don't come the drops 'ere. Pass him down, some of yer," and thewretch was hustled down to the doorway.

"Vater!" he whispered, beating feebly with his hand on the thick oak.

"Get us a drink, mister, for Gord's sake!"

But the prudent sentry answered never a word, until the ship's bell warnedhim of the approach of the relief guard; and then honest old Pine, coming withanxious face to inquire after his charge, received the intelligence that therewas another prisoner sick. He had the door unlocked and the tailor outside inan instant. One look at the flushed, anxious face was enough.

"Who's that moaning in there?" he asked.

It was the man who had tried to call for the sentry an hour back, and Pinehad him out also; convictism beginning to wonder a little.

"Take 'em both aft to the hospital," he said; "and, Jenkins, if there areany more men taken sick, let them pass the word for me at once. I shall be ondeck."

The guard stared in each other's faces, with some alarm, but said nothing,thinking more of the burning ship, which now flamed furiously across the placidwater, than of peril nearer home; but as Pine went up the hatchway he metBlunt.

"We've got the fever aboard!"

"Good God! Do you mean it, Pine?"

Pine shook his grizzled head sorrowfully.

"It's this cursed calm that's done it; though I expected it all along, withthe ship crammed as she is. When I was in the Hecuba—"

"Who is it?"

Pine laughed a half-pitying, half-angry laugh.

"A convict, of course. Who else should it be? They are reeking like bullocksat Smithfield down there. A hundred and eighty men penned into a place fiftyfeet long, with the air like an oven—what could you expect?"

Poor Blunt stamped his foot.

"It isn't my fault," he cried. "The soldiers are berthed aft. If theGovernment will overload these ships, I can't help it."

"The Government! Ah! The Government! The Government don't sleep, sixty mena-side, in a cabin only six feet high. The Government don't get typhus fever inthe tropics, does it?"

"No—but—"

"But what does the Government care, then?"

Blunt wiped his hot forehead.

"Who was the first down?"

"No. 97 berth; ten on the lower tier. John Rex he calls himself."

"Are you sure it's the fever?"

"As sure as I can be yet. Head like a fire-ball, and tongue like a strip ofleather. Gad, don't I know it?" and Pine grinned mournfully. "I've got himmoved into the hospital. Hospital! It is a hospital! As dark as a wolf's mouth.I've seen dog kennels I liked better."

Blunt nodded towards the volume of lurid smoke that rolled up out of theglow.—"Suppose there is a shipload of those poor devils? I can't refuseto take 'em in."

"No," says Pine gloomily, "I suppose you can't. If they come, I must stow'em somewhere. We'll have to run for the Cape, with the first breeze, if theydo come, that is all I can see for it," and he turned away to watch the burningvessel.

CHAPTER VI. THE FATE OF THE "HYDASPES".

In the meanwhile the two boats made straight for the red column that uproselike a gigantic torch over the silent sea.

As Blunt had said, the burning ship lay a good twelve miles from theMalabar, and the pull was a long and a weary one. Once fairly away from theprotecting sides of the vessel that had borne them thus far on their dismaljourney, the adventurers seemed to have come into a new atmosphere. Theimmensity of the ocean over which they slowly moved revealed itself for thefirst time. On board the prison ship, surrounded with all the memories if notwith the comforts of the shore they had quitted, they had not realized how farthey were from that civilization which had given them birth. The well-lighted,well-furnished cuddy, the homely mirth of the forecastle, the setting ofsentries and the changing of guards, even the gloom and terror of theclosely-locked prison, combined to make the voyagers feel secure against theunknown dangers of the sea. That defiance of Nature which is born of contactwith humanity, had hitherto sustained them, and they felt that, though alone onthe vast expanse of waters, they were in companionship with others of theirkind, and that the perils one man had passed might be successfully dared byanother. But now—with one ship growing smaller behind them, and theother, containing they knew not what horror of human agony and humanhelplessness, lying a burning wreck in the black distance ahead ofthem—they began to feel their own littleness. The Malabar, that huge seamonster, in whose capacious belly so many human creatures lived and suffered,had dwindled to a walnut-shell, and yet beside her bulk how infinitely smallhad their own frail co*ckboat appeared as they shot out from under her toweringstern! Then the black hull rising above them, had seemed a tower of strength,built to defy the utmost violence of wind and wave; now it was but a slip ofwood floating—on an unknown depth of black, fathomless water. The bluelight, which, at its first flashing over the ocean, had made the very starspale their lustre, and lighted up with ghastly radiance the enormous vault ofheaven, was now only a point, brilliant and distinct it is true, but which byits very brilliance dwarfed the ship into insignificance. The Malabar lay onthe water like a glow-worm on a floating leaf, and the glare of the signal-firemade no more impression on the darkness than the candle carried by a solitaryminer would have made on the abyss of a coal-pit.

And yet the Malabar held two hundred creatures like themselves!

The water over which the boats glided was black and smooth, rising into hugefoamless billows, the more terrible because they were silent. When the seahisses, it speaks, and speech breaks the spell of terror; when it is inert,heaving noiselessly, it is dumb, and seems to brood over mischief. The ocean ina calm is like a sulky giant; one dreads that it may be meditating evil.Moreover, an angry sea looks less vast in extent than a calm one. Its mountingwaves bring the horizon nearer, and one does not discern how for many leaguesthe pitiless billows repeat themselves. To appreciate the hideous vastness ofthe ocean one must see it when it sleeps.

The great sky uprose from this silent sea without a cloud. The stars hunglow in its expanse, burning in a violent mist of lower ether. The heavens wereemptied of sound, and each dip of the oars was re-echoed in space by asuccession of subtle harmonies. As the blades struck the dark water, it flashedfire, and the tracks of the boats resembled two sea-snakes writhing with silentundulations through a lake of quicksilver.

It had been a sort of race hitherto, and the rowers, with set teeth andcompressed lips, had pulled stroke for stroke. At last the foremost boat cameto a sudden pause. Best gave a cheery shout and passed her, steering straightinto the broad track of crimson that already reeked on the sea ahead.

"What is it?" he cried.

But he heard only a smothered curse from Frere, and then his consort pulledhard to overtake him.

It was, in fact, nothing of consequence—only a prisoner "givingin".

"Curse it!" says Frere, "What's the matter with you? Oh, you, isit?—Dawes! Of course, Dawes. I never expected anything better from such askulking hound. Come, this sort of nonsense won't do with me. It isn't as niceas lolloping about the hatchways, I dare say, but you'll have to go on, my finefellow."

"He seems sick, sir," said (with) compassionate bow.

"Sick! Not he. Shamming. Come, give way now! Put your backs into it!" andthe convict having picked up his oar, the boat shot forward again.

But, for all Mr. Frere's urging, he could not recover the way he had lost,and Best was the first to run in under the black cloud that hung over thecrimsoned water.

At his signal, the second boat came alongside.

"Keep wide," he said. "If there are many fellows yet aboard, they'll swampus; and I think there must be, as we haven't met the boats," and then raisinghis voice, as the exhausted crew lay on their oars, he hailed the burningship.

She was a huge, clumsily-built vessel, with great breadth of beam, and alofty poop-deck. Strangely enough, though they had so lately seen the fire, shewas already a wreck, and appeared to be completely deserted. The chief hold ofthe fire was amidships, and the lower deck was one mass of flame. Here andthere were great charred rifts and gaps in her sides, and the red-hot fireglowed through these as through the bars of a grate. The main-mast had fallenon the starboard side, and trailed a blackened wreck in the water, causing theunwieldy vessel to lean over heavily. The fire roared like a cataract, and hugevolumes of flame-flecked smoke poured up out of the hold, and rolled away in alow-lying black cloud over the sea.

As Frere's boat pulled slowly round her stern, he hailed the deck again andagain.

Still there was no answer, and though the flood of light that dyed the waterblood-red struck out every rope and spar distinct and clear, his straining eyescould see no living soul aboard. As they came nearer, they could distinguishthe gilded letters of her name.

"What is it, men?" cried Frere, his voice almost drowned amid the roar ofthe flames. "Can you see?"

Rufus Dawes, impelled, it would seem, by some strong impulse of curiosity,stood erect, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Well—can't you speak? What is it?"

"The Hydaspes!"

Frere gasped.

The Hydaspes! The ship in which his cousin Richard Devine had sailed! Theship for which those in England might now look in vain! The Hydaspeswhich—something he had heard during the speculations as to this missingcousin flashed across him.

"Back water, men! Round with her! Pull for your lives!"

Best's boat glided alongside.

"Can you see her name?"

Frere, white with terror, shouted a reply.

"The Hydaspes! I know her. She is bound for Calcutta, and she has five tonsof powder aboard!"

There was no need for more words. The single sentence explained the wholemystery of her desertion. The crew had taken to the boats on the first alarm,and had left their death-fraught vessel to her fate. They were miles off bythis time, and unluckily for themselves, perhaps, had steered away from theside where rescue lay.

The boats tore through the water. Eager as the men had been to come, theywere more eager to depart. The flames had even now reached the poop; in a fewminutes it would be too late. For ten minutes or more not a word was spoken.With straining arms and labouring chests, the rowers tugged at the oars, theireyes fixed on the lurid mass they were leaving. Frere and Best, with theirfaces turned back to the terror they fled from, urged the men to greaterefforts. Already the flames had lapped the flag, already the outlines of thestern carvings were blurred by the fire.

Another moment, and all would be over. Ah! it had come at last. A dullrumbling sound; the burning ship parted asunder; a pillar of fire, flecked withblack masses that were beams and planks, rose up out of the ocean; there was aterrific crash, as though sea and sky were coming together; and then a mightymountain of water rose, advanced, caught, and passed them, and they werealone—deafened, stunned, and breathless, in a sudden horror of thickestdarkness, and a silence like that of the tomb.

The splashing of the falling fragments awoke them from their stupor, andthen the blue light of the Malabar struck out a bright pathway across the sea,and they knew that they were safe.

*

On board the Malabar two men paced the deck, waiting for dawn.

It came at last. The sky lightened, the mist melted away, and then a long,low, far-off streak of pale yellow light floated on the eastern horizon. By andby the water sparkled, and the sea changed colour, turning from black toyellow, and from yellow to lucid green. The man at the masthead hailed thedeck. The boats were in sight, and as they came towards the ship, the brightwater flashing from the labouring oars, a crowd of spectators hanging over thebulwarks cheered and waved their hats.

"Not a soul!" cried Blunt. "No one but themselves. Well, I'm glad they'resafe anyway."

The boats drew alongside, and in a few seconds Frere was upon deck.

"Well, Mr. Frere?"

"No use," cried Frere, shivering. "We only just had time to get away. Thenearest thing in the world, sir."

"Didn't you see anyone?"

"Not a soul. They must have taken to the boats."

"Then they can't be far off," cried Blunt, sweeping the horizon with hisglass. "They must have pulled all the way, for there hasn't been enough wind tofill a hollow tooth with." "Perhaps they pulled in the wrong direction," saidFrere. "They had a good four hours' start of us, you know."

Then Best came up, and told the story to a crowd of eager listeners. Thesailors having hoisted and secured the boats, were hurried off to theforecastle, there to eat, and relate their experience between mouthfuls, andthe four convicts were taken in charge and locked below again.

"You had better go and turn in, Frere," said Pine gruffly. "It's no usewhistling for a wind here all day."

Frere laughed—in his heartiest manner. "I think I will," he said. "I'mdog tired, and as sleepy as an owl," and he descended the poop ladder. Pinetook a couple of turns up and down the deck, and then catching Blunt's eye,stopped in front of Vickers.

"You may think it a hard thing to say, Captain Vickers, but it's just aswell if we don't find these poor devils. We have quite enough on our hands asit is."

"What do you mean, Mr. Pine?" says Vickers, his humane feelings getting thebetter of his pomposity. "You would not surely leave the unhappy men to theirfate."

"Perhaps," returned the other, "they would not thank us for taking themaboard."

"I don't understand you."

"The fever has broken out."

Vickers raised his brows. He had no experience of such things; and thoughthe intelligence was startling, the crowded condition of the prison rendered iteasy to be understood, and he apprehended no danger to himself.

"It is a great misfortune; but, of course, you will take suchsteps—"

"It is only in the prison, as yet," says Pine, with a grim emphasis on theword; "but there is no saying how long it may stop there. I have got three mendown as it is." "Well, sir, all authority in the matter is in your hands. Anysuggestions you make, I will, of course, do my best to carry out."

"Thank ye. I must have more room in the hospital to begin with. The soldiersmust lie a little closer."

"I will see what can be done."

"And you had better keep your wife and the little girl as much on deck aspossible."

Vickers turned pale at the mention of his child. "Good Heaven! do you thinkthere is any danger?"

"There is, of course, danger to all of us; but with care we may escape it.There's that maid, too. Tell her to keep to herself a little more. She has atrick of roaming about the ship I don't like. Infection is easily spread, andchildren always sicken sooner than grown-up people."

Vickers pressed his lips together. This old man, with his harsh, dissonantvoice, and hideous practicality, seemed like a bird of ill omen.

Blunt, hitherto silently listening, put in a word for defence of the absentwoman. "The wench is right enough, Pine," said he. "What's the matter withher?"

"Yes, she's all right, I've no doubt. She's less likely to take it than anyof us. You can see her vitality in her face—as many lives as a cat. Butshe'd bring infection quicker than anybody."

"I'll—I'll go at once," cried poor Vickers, turning round. The womanof whom they were speaking met him on the ladder. Her face was paler thanusual, and dark circles round her eyes gave evidence of a sleepless night. Sheopened her red lips to speak, and then, seeing Vickers, stopped abruptly.

"Well, what is it?"

She looked from one to the other. "I came for Dr. Pine."

Vickers, with the quick intelligence of affection, guessed her errand."Someone is ill?"

"Miss Sylvia, sir. It is nothing to signify, I think. A little feverish andhot, and my mistress—"

Vickers was down the ladder in an instant, with scared face.

Pine caught the girl's round firm arm. "Where have you been?" Two greatflakes of red came out in her white cheeks, and she shot an indignant glance atBlunt.

"Come, Pine, let the wench alone!"

"Were you with the child last night?" went on Pine, without turning hishead.

"No; I have not been in the cabin since dinner yesterday. Mrs. Vickers onlycalled me in just now. Let go my arm, sir, you hurt me."

Pine loosed his hold as if satisfied at the reply. "I beg your pardon," hesaid gruffly. "I did not mean to hurt you. But the fever has broken out in theprison, and I think the child has caught it. You must be careful where you go."And then, with an anxious face, he went in pursuit of Vickers.

Sarah Purfoy stood motionless for an instant, in deadly terror. Her lipsparted, her eyes glittered, and she made a movement as though to retrace hersteps.

"Poor soul!" thought honest Blunt, "how she feels for the child!D—— that lubberly surgeon, he's hurt her!—Never mind, mylass," he said aloud. It was broad daylight, and he had not as much courage inlove-making as at night. "Don't be afraid. I've been in ships with fever beforenow."

Awaking, as it were, at the sound of his voice, she came closer to him. "Butship fever! I have heard of it! Men have died like rotten sheep in crowdedvessels like this."

"Tush! Not they. Don't be frightened; Miss Sylvia won't die, nor youneither." He took her hand. "It may knock off a few dozen prisoners or so. Theyare pretty close packed down there—"

She drew her hand away; and then, remembering herself, gave it himagain.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing—a pain. I did not sleep last night."

"There, there; you are upset, I dare say. Go and lie down."

She was staring away past him over the sea, as if in thought. So intentlydid she look that he involuntarily turned his head, and the action recalled herto herself. She brought her fine straight brows together for a moment, and thenraised them with the action of a thinker who has decided on his course ofconduct.

"I have a toothache," said she, putting her hand to her face.

"Take some laudanum," says Blunt, with dim recollections of his mother'streatment of such ailments. "Old Pine'll give you some."

To his astonishment she burst into tears.

"There—there! Don't cry, my dear. Hang it, don't cry. What are youcrying about?"

She dashed away the bright drops, and raised her face with a rainy smile oftrusting affection. "Nothing! I am lonely. So far from home; and—and Dr.Pine hurt my arm. Look!"

She bared that shapely member as she spoke, and sure enough there were threered marks on the white and shining flesh.

"The ruffian!" cried Blunt, "it's too bad." And after a hasty look aroundhim, the infatuated fellow kissed the bruise. "I'll get the laudanum for you,"he said. "You shan't ask that bear for it. Come into my cabin."

Blunt's cabin was in the starboard side of the ship, just under the poopawning, and possessed three windows—one looking out over the side, andtwo upon deck. The corresponding cabin on the other side was occupied by Mr.Maurice Frere. He closed the door, and took down a small medicine chest,cleated above the hooks where hung his signal-pictured telescope.

"Here," said he, opening it. "I've carried this little box for years, but itain't often I want to use it, thank God. Now, then, put some o' this into yourmouth, and hold it there."

"Good gracious, Captain Blunt, you'll poison me! Give me the bottle; I'llhelp myself."

"Don't take too much," says Blunt. "It's dangerous stuff, you know."

"You need not fear. I've used it before."

The door was shut, and as she put the bottle in her pocket, the amorouscaptain caught her in his arms.

"What do you say? Come, I think I deserve a kiss for that."

Her tears were all dry long ago, and had only given increased colour to herface. This agreeable woman never wept long enough to make herself distasteful.She raised her dark eyes to his for a moment, with a saucy smile. "By and by,"said she, and escaping, gained her cabin. It was next to that of her mistress,and she could hear the sick child feebly moaning. Her eyes filled withtears—real ones this time.

"Poor little thing," she said; "I hope she won't die."

And then she threw herself on her bed, and buried her hot head in thepillow. The intelligence of the fever seemed to have terrified her. Had thenews disarranged some well-concocted plan of hers? Being near theaccomplishment of some cherished scheme long kept in view, had the sudden andunexpected presence of disease falsified her carefully-made calculations, andcast an almost insurmountable obstacle in her path?

"She die! and through me? How did I know that he had the fever? Perhaps Ihave taken it myself—I feel ill." She turned over on the bed, as if inpain, and then started to a sitting position, stung by a sudden thought."Perhaps he might die! The fever spreads quickly, and if so, all this plottingwill have been useless. It must be done at once. It will never do to break downnow," and taking the phial from her pocket, she held it up, to see how much itcontained. It was three parts full. "Enough for both," she said, between herset teeth. The action of holding up the bottle reminded her of the amorousBlunt, and she smiled. "A strange way to show affection for a man," she said toherself, "and yet he doesn't care, and I suppose I shouldn't by this time. I'llgo through with it, and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can fall back onMaurice." She loosened the cork of the phial, so that it would come out with aslittle noise as possible, and then placed it carefully in her bosom. "I willget a little sleep if I can," she said. "They have got the note, and it shallbe done to-night."

CHAPTER VII. TYPHUS FEVER.

The felon Rufus Dawes had stretched himself in his bunk and tried to sleep.But though he was tired and sore, and his head felt like lead, he could not butkeep broad awake. The long pull through the pure air, if it had tired him, hadrevived him, and he felt stronger; but for all that, the fatal sickness thatwas on him maintained its hold; his pulse beat thickly, and his brain throbbedwith unnatural heat. Lying in his narrow space—in thesemi-darkness—he tossed his limbs about, and closed his eyes invain—he could not sleep. His utmost efforts induced only an oppressivestagnation of thought, through which he heard the voices of hisfellow-convicts; while before his eyes was still the burningHydaspes—that vessel whose destruction had destroyed for ever all traceof the unhappy Richard Devine.

It was fortunate for his comfort, perhaps, that the man who had been chosento accompany him was of a talkative turn, for the prisoners insisted uponhearing the story of the explosion a dozen times over, and Rufus Dawes himselfhad been roused to give the name of the vessel with his own lips. Had it notbeen for the hideous respect in which he was held, it is possible that he mighthave been compelled to give his version also, and to join in the animateddiscussion which took place upon the possibility of the saving of the fugitivecrew. As it was, however, he was left in peace, and lay unnoticed, trying tosleep.

The detachment of fifty being on deck—airing—the prison was notquite so hot as at night, and many of the convicts made up for their lack ofrest by snatching a dog-sleep in the bared bunks. The four volunteer oarsmenwere allowed to "take it out."

As yet there had been no alarm of fever. The three seizures had excited somecomment, however, and had it not been for the counter-excitement of the burningship, it is possible that Pine's precaution would have been thrown away. The"Old Hands"—who had been through the Passage before—suspected, butsaid nothing, save among themselves. It was likely that the weak and sicklywould go first, and that there would be more room for those remaining. The OldHands were satisfied.

Three of these Old Hands were conversing together just behind the partitionof Dawes's bunk. As we have said, the berths were five feet square, and eachcontained six men. No. 10, the berth occupied by Dawes, was situated on thecorner made by the joining of the starboard and centre lines, and behind it wasa slight recess, in which the scuttle was fixed. His "mates" were at presentbut three in number, for John Rex and the co*ckney tailor had been removed tothe hospital. The three that remained were now in deep conversation in theshelter of the recess. Of these, the giant—who had the previous nightasserted his authority in the prison—seemed to be the chief. His name wasGabbett. He was a returned convict, now on his way to undergo a second sentencefor burglary. The other two were a man named Sanders, known as the "Moocher",and Jemmy Vetch, the Crow. They were talking in whispers, but Rufus Dawes,lying with his head close to the partition, was enabled to catch much of whatthey said.

At first the conversation turned on the catastrophe of the burning ship andthe likelihood of saving the crew. From this it grew to anecdote of wreck andadventure, and at last Gabbett said something which made the listener startfrom his indifferent efforts to slumber, into sudden broad wakefulness.

It was the mention of his own name, coupled with that of the woman he hadmet on the quarter-deck, that roused him.

"I saw her speaking to Dawes yesterday," said the giant, with an oath. "Wedon't want no more than we've got. I ain't goin' to risk my neck for Rex'swoman's fancies, and so I'll tell her."

"It was something about the kid," says the Crow, in his elegant slang. "Idon't believe she ever saw him before. Besides, she's nuts on Jack, and ain'tlikely to pick up with another man."

"If I thort she was agoin' to throw us over, I'd cut her throat as soon aslook at her!" snorts Gabbett savagely.

"Jack ud have a word in that," snuffles the Moocher; "and he's a curiouscove to quarrel with."

"Well, stow yer gaff," grumbled Mr. Gabbett, "and let's have no more chaff.If we're for bizness, let's come to bizness."

"What are we to do now?" asked the Moocher. "Jack's on the sick list, andthe gal won't stir a'thout him."

"Ay," returned Gabbett, "that's it."

"My dear friends," said the Crow, "my keyind and keristian friends, it is tobe regretted that when natur' gave you such tremendously thick skulls, shedidn't put something inside of 'em. I say that now's the time. Jack's in the'orspital; what of that? That don't make it no better for him, does it? Not abit of it; and if he drops his knife and fork, why then, it's my opinion thatthe gal won't stir a peg. It's on his account, not ours, that she's beenmanoovering, ain't it?"

"Well!" says Mr. Gabbett, with the air of one who was but partly convinced,"I s'pose it is."

"All the more reason of getting it off quick. Another thing, when the boysknow there's fever aboard, you'll see the rumpus there'll be. They'll be readyenough to join us then. Once get the snapper chest, and we're right asninepenn'orth o' hapence."

This conversation, interspersed with oaths and slang as it was, had anintense interest for Rufus Dawes. Plunged into prison, hurriedly tried, and byreason of his surroundings ignorant of the death of his father and his ownfortune, he had hitherto—in his agony and sullen gloom—held alooffrom the scoundrels who surrounded him, and repelled their hideous advances offriendship. He now saw his error. He knew that the name he had once possessedwas blotted out, that any shred of his old life which had clung to himhitherto, was shrivelled in the fire that consumed the "Hydaspes". The secret,for the preservation of which Richard Devine had voluntarily flung away hisname, and risked a terrible and disgraceful death, would be now for ever safe;for Richard Devine was dead—lost at sea with the crew of the ill-fatedvessel in which, deluded by a skilfully-sent letter from the prison, his motherbelieved him to have sailed. Richard Devine was dead, and the secret of hisbirth would die with him. Rufus Dawes, his alter ego, alone should live. RufusDawes, the convicted felon, the suspected murderer, should live to claim hisfreedom, and work out his vengeance; or, rendered powerful by the terribleexperience of the prison-sheds, should seize both, in defiance of gaol orgaoler.

With his head swimming, and his brain on fire, he eagerly listened for more.It seemed as if the fever which burnt in his veins had consumed the grosserpart of his sense, and given him increased power of hearing. He was consciousthat he was ill. His bones ached, his hands burned, his head throbbed, but hecould hear distinctly, and, he thought, reason on what he heard profoundly.

"But we can't stir without the girl," Gabbett said. "She's got to stall offthe sentry and give us the orfice."

The Crow's sallow features lighted up with a cunning smile.

"Dear old caper merchant! Hear him talk!" said he, "as if he had the wisdomof Solomon in all his glory? Look here!"

And he produced a dirty scrap of paper, over which his companions eagerlybent their heads.

"Where did yer get that?"

"Yesterday afternoon Sarah was standing on the poop throwing bits o' toke tothe gulls, and I saw her a-looking at me very hard. At last she came down asnear the barricade as she dared, and throwed crumbs and such like up in the airover the side. By and by a pretty big lump, doughed up round, fell close to myfoot, and, watching a favourable opportunity, I pouched it. Inside was this bito' rag-bag."

"Ah!" said Mr. Gabbett, "that's more like. Read it out, Jemmy."

The writing, though feminine in character, was bold and distinct. Sarah hadevidently been mindful of the education of her friends, and had desired to givethem as little trouble as possible.

"All is right. Watch me when I come up to-morrow evening at three bells. IfI drop my handkerchief, get to work at the time agreed on. The sentry will besafe."

Rufus Dawes, though his eyelids would scarcely keep open, and a terriblelassitude almost paralysed his limbs, eagerly drank in the whispered sentence.There was a conspiracy to seize the ship. Sarah Purfoy was in league with theconvicts—was herself the wife or mistress of one of them. She had come onboard armed with a plot for his release, and this plot was about to be put inexecution. He had heard of the atrocities perpetrated by successful mutineers.Story after story of such nature had often made the prison resound withhorrible mirth. He knew the characters of the three ruffians who, separatedfrom him by but two inches of planking, jested and laughed over their plans offreedom and vengeance. Though he conversed but little with his companions,these men were his berth mates, and he could not but know how they wouldproceed to wreak their vengeance on their gaolers.

True, that the head of this formidable chimera—John Rex, theforger—was absent, but the two hands, or rather claws—the burglarand the prison-breaker—were present, and the slimly-made, effeminateCrow, if he had not the brains of the master, yet made up for his flaccidmuscles and nerveless frame by a cat-like cunning, and a spirit of devilishvolatility that nothing could subdue. With such a powerful ally outside as themock maid-servant, the chance of success was enormously increased. There wereone hundred and eighty convicts and but fifty soldiers. If the first rushproved successful—and the precautions taken by Sarah Purfoy renderedsuccess possible—the vessel was theirs. Rufus Dawes thought of the littlebright-haired child who had run so confidingly to meet him, and shuddered.

"There!" said the Crow, with a sneering laugh, "what do you think of that?Does the girl look like nosing us now?"

"No," says the giant, stretching his great arms with a grin of delight, asone stretches one's chest in the sun, "that's right, that is. That's more likebizness."

"England, home and beauty!" said Vetch, with a mock-heroic air, strangelyout of tune with the subject under discussion. "You'd like to go home again,wouldn't you, old man?"

Gabbett turned on him fiercely, his low forehead wrinkled into a frown offerocious recollection.

"You!" he said—"You think the chain's fine sport, don't yer? But I'vebeen there, my young chicken, and I knows what it means."

There was silence for a minute or two. The giant was plunged in gloomyabstraction, and Vetch and the Moocher interchanged a significant glance.Gabbett had been ten years at the colonial penal settlement of MacquarieHarbour, and he had memories that he did not confide to his companions. When heindulged in one of these fits of recollection, his friends found it best toleave him to himself.

Rufus Dawes did not understand the sudden silence. With all his sensesstretched to the utmost to listen, the cessation of the whispered colloquyaffected him strangely. Old artillery-men have said that, after being at workfor days in the trenches, accustomed to the continued roar of the guns, asudden pause in the firing will cause them intense pain. Something of thisfeeling was experienced by Rufus Dawes. His faculties of hearing andthinking—both at their highest pitch—seemed to break down. It wasas though some prop had been knocked from under him. No longer stimulated byoutward sounds, his senses appeared to fail him. The blood rushed into his eyesand ears. He made a violent, vain effort to retain his consciousness, but witha faint cry fell back, striking his head against the edge of the bunk.

The noise roused the burglar in an instant. There was someone in the berth!The three looked into each other's eyes, in guilty alarm, and then Gabbettdashed round the partition.

"It's Dawes!" said the Moocher. "We had forgotten him!"

"He'll join us, mate—he'll join us!" cried Vetch, fearful ofbloodshed.

Gabbett uttered a furious oath, and flinging himself on to the prostratefigure, dragged it, head foremost, to the floor. The sudden vertigo had savedRufus Dawes's life. The robber twisted one brawny hand in his shirt, andpressing the knuckles down, prepared to deliver a blow that should for eversilence the listener, when Vetch caught his arm. "He's been asleep," he cried."Don't hit him! See, he's not awake yet."

A crowd gathered round. The giant relaxed his grip, but the convict gaveonly a deep groan, and allowed his head to fall on his shoulder. "You've killedhim!" cried someone.

Gabbett took another look at the purpling face and the bedewed forehead, andthen sprang erect, rubbing at his right hand, as though he would rub offsomething sticking there.

"He's got the fever!" he roared, with a terror-stricken grimace.

"The what?" asked twenty voices.

"The fever, ye grinning fools!" cried Gabbett. "I've seen it before to-day.The typhus is aboard, and he's the fourth man down!"

The circle of beast-like faces, stretched forward to "see the fight,"widened at the half-uncomprehended, ill-omened word. It was as though abombshell had fallen into the group. Rufus Dawes lay on the deck motionless,breathing heavily. The savage circle glared at his prostrate body. The alarmran round, and all the prison crowded down to stare at him. All at once heuttered a groan, and turning, propped his body on his two rigid arms, and madean effort to speak. But no sound issued from his convulsed jaws.

"He's done," said the Moocher brutally. "He didn't hear nuffin', I'll poundit."

The noise of the heavy bolts shooting back broke the spell. The firstdetachment were coming down from "exercise." The door was flung back, and thebayonets of the guard gleamed in a ray of sunshine that shot down the hatchway.This glimpse of sunlight—sparkling at the entrance of the foetid andstifling prison—seemed to mock their miseries. It was as though Heavenlaughed at them. By one of those terrible and strange impulses which animatecrowds, the mass, turning from the sick man, leapt towards the doorway. Theinterior of the prison flashed white with suddenly turned faces. The gloomscintillated with rapidly moving hands. "Air! air! Give us air!"

"That's it!" said Sanders to his companions. "I thought the news would rouse'em."

Gabbett—all the savage in his blood stirred by the sight of flashingeyes and wrathful faces—would have thrown himself forward with the rest,but Vetch plucked him back.

"It'll be over in a moment," he said. "It's only a fit they've got." Hespoke truly. Through the uproar was heard the rattle of iron on iron, as theguard "stood to their arms," and the wedge of grey cloth broke, in suddenterror of the levelled muskets.

There was an instant's pause, and then old Pine walked, unmolested, down theprison and knelt by the body of Rufus Dawes.

The sight of the familiar figure, so calmly performing its familiar duty,restored all that submission to recognized authority which strict disciplinebegets. The convicts slunk away into their berths, or officiously ran to help"the doctor," with affectation of intense obedience. The prison was like aschoolroom, into which the master had suddenly returned. "Stand back, my lads!Take him up, two of you, and carry him to the door. The poor fellow won't hurtyou." His orders were obeyed, and the old man, waiting until his patient hadbeen safely received outside, raised his hand to command attention. "I see youknow what I have to tell. The fever has broken out. That man has got it. It isabsurd to suppose that no one else will be seized. I might catch it myself. Youare much crowded down here, I know; but, my lads, I can't help that; I didn'tmake the ship, you know."

"'Ear, 'ear!"

"It is a terrible thing, but you must keep orderly and quiet, and bear itlike men. You know what the discipline is, and it is not in my power to alterit. I shall do my best for your comfort, and I look to you to help me."

Holding his grey head very erect indeed, the brave old fellow passedstraight down the line, without looking to the right or left. He had said justenough, and he reached the door amid a chorus of "'Ear, 'ear!" "Bravo!" "Truefor you, docther!" and so on. But when he got fairly outside, he breathed morefreely. He had performed a ticklish task, and he knew it.

"'Ark at 'em," growled the Moocher from his corner, "a-cheerin' at thebloody noos!"

"Wait a bit," said the acuter intelligence of Jemmy Vetch. "Give 'em time.There'll be three or four more down afore night, and then we'll see!"

CHAPTER VIII. A DANGEROUS CRISIS.

It was late in the afternoon when Sarah Purfoy awoke from her uneasyslumber. She had been dreaming of the deed she was about to do, and was flushedand feverish; but, mindful of the consequences which hung upon the success orfailure of the enterprise, she rallied herself, bathed her face and hands, andascended with as calm an air as she could assume to the poop-deck.

Nothing was changed since yesterday. The sentries' arms glittered in thepitiless sunshine, the ship rolled and creaked on the swell of the dreamy sea,and the prison-cage on the lower deck was crowded with the same cheerlessfigures, disposed in the attitudes of the day before. Even Mr. Maurice Frere,recovered from his midnight fatigues, was lounging on the same coil of rope, inprecisely the same position.

Yet the eye of an acute observer would have detected some difference beneaththis outward varnish of similarity. The man at the wheel looked round thehorizon more eagerly, and spit into the swirling, unwholesome-looking waterwith a more dejected air than before. The fishing-lines still hung danglingover the catheads, but nobody touched them. The soldiers and sailors on theforecastle, collected in knots, had no heart even to smoke, but gloomily staredat each other. Vickers was in the cuddy writing; Blunt was in his cabin; andPine, with two carpenters at work under his directions, was improvisingincreased hospital accommodation. The noise of mallet and hammer echoed in thesoldiers' berth ominously; the workmen might have been making coffins. Theprison was strangely silent, with the lowering silence which precedes athunderstorm; and the convicts on deck no longer told stories, nor laughed atobscene jests, but sat together, moodily patient, as if waiting for something.Three men—two prisoners and a soldier—had succumbed since RufusDawes had been removed to the hospital; and though as yet there had been nocomplaint or symptom of panic, the face of each man, soldier, sailor, orprisoner, wore an expectant look, as though he wondered whose turn would comenext. On the ship—rolling ceaselessly from side to side, like somewounded creature, on the opaque profundity of that stagnant ocean—ahorrible shadow had fallen. The Malabar seemed to be enveloped in an electriccloud, whose sullen gloom a chance spark might flash into a blaze that shouldconsume her.

The woman who held in her hands the two ends of the chain that would producethis spark, paused, came up upon deck, and, after a glance round, leant againstthe poop railing, and looked down into the barricade. As we have said, theprisoners were in knots of four and five, and to one group in particular herglance was directed. Three men, leaning carelessly against the bulwarks,watched her every motion.

"There she is, right enough," growled Mr. Gabbett, as if in continuation ofa previous remark. "Flash as ever, and looking this way, too."

"I don't see no wipe," said the practical Moocher.

"Patience is a virtue, most noble knuckler!" says the Crow, with affectedcarelessness. "Give the young woman time."

"Blowed if I'm going to wait no longer," says the giant, licking his coarseblue lips. "'Ere we've been bluffed off day arter day, and kep' dancin' roundthe Dandy's wench like a parcel o' dogs. The fever's aboard, and we've got allready. What's the use o' waitin'? Orfice, or no orfice, I'm for bizness atonce!—"

"—There, look at that," he added, with an oath, as the figure ofMaurice Frere appeared side by side with that of the waiting-maid, and the twoturned away up the deck together.

"It's all right, you confounded muddlehead!" cried the Crow, losing patiencewith his perverse and stupid companion. "How can she give us the office withthat cove at her elbow?"

Gabbett's only reply to this question was a ferocious grunt, and a suddenelevation of his clenched fist, which caused Mr. Vetch to retreatprecipitately. The giant did not follow; and Mr. Vetch, folding his arms, andassuming an attitude of easy contempt, directed his attention to Sarah Purfoy.She seemed an object of general attraction, for at the same moment a youngsoldier ran up the ladder to the forecastle, and eagerly bent his gaze in herdirection.

Maurice Frere had come behind her and touched her on the shoulder. Sincetheir conversation the previous evening, he had made up his mind to be fooledno longer. The girl was evidently playing with him, and he would show her thathe was not to be trifled with.

"Well, Sarah!"

"Well, Mr. Frere," dropping her hand, and turning round with a smile.

"How well you are looking to-day! Positively lovely!"

"You have told me that so often," says she, with a pout. "Have you nothingelse to say?"

"Except that I love you." This in a most impassioned manner.

"That is no news. I know you do."

"Curse it, Sarah, what is a fellow to do?" His profligacy was failing himrapidly. "What is the use of playing fast and loose with a fellow thisway?"

"A 'fellow' should be able to take care of himself, Mr. Frere. I didn't askyou to fall in love with me, did I? If you don't please me, it is not yourfault, perhaps."

"What do you mean?"

"You soldiers have so many things to think of—your guards andsentries, and visits and things. You have no time to spare for a poor womanlike me."

"Spare!" cries Frere, in amazement. "Why, damme, you won't let a fellowspare! I'd spare fast enough, if that was all." She cast her eyes down to thedeck and a modest flush rose in her cheeks. "I have so much to do," she said,in a half-whisper. "There are so many eyes upon me, I cannot stir without beingseen."

She raised her head as she spoke, and to give effect to her words, lookedround the deck. Her glance crossed that of the young soldier on the forecastle,and though the distance was too great for her to distinguish his features, sheguessed who he was—Miles was jealous. Frere, smiling with delight at herchange of manner, came close to her, and whispered in her ear. She affected tostart, and took the opportunity of exchanging a signal with the Crow.

"I will come at eight o'clock," said she, with modestly averted face.

"They relieve the guard at eight," he said deprecatingly.

She tossed her head. "Very well, then, attend to your guard; I don'tcare."

"But, Sarah, consider—"

"As if a woman in love ever considers!" said she, turning upon him a burningglance, which in truth might have melted a more icy man than he. —Sheloved him then! What a fool he would be to refuse. To get her to come was thefirst object; how to make duty fit with pleasure would be consideredafterwards. Besides, the guard could relieve itself for once without hissupervision.

"Very well, at eight then, dearest."

"Hush!" said she. "Here comes that stupid captain."

And as Frere left her, she turned, and with her eyes fixed on the convictbarricade, dropped the handkerchief she held in her hand over the poop railing.It fell at the feet of the amorous captain, and with a quick upward glance,that worthy fellow picked it up, and brought it to her.

"Oh, thank you, Captain Blunt," said she, and her eyes spoke more than hertongue.

"Did you take the laudanum?" whispered Blunt, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Some of it," said she. "I will bring you back the bottle to-night."

Blunt walked aft, humming cheerily, and saluted Frere with a slap on theback. The two men laughed, each at his own thoughts, but their laughter onlymade the surrounding gloom seem deeper than before.

Sarah Purfoy, casting her eyes toward the barricade, observed a change inthe position of the three men. They were together once more, and the Crow,having taken off his prison cap, held it at arm's length with one hand, whilehe wiped his brow with the other. Her signal had been observed.

During all this, Rufus Dawes, removed to the hospital, was lying flat on hisback, staring at the deck above him, trying to think of something he wanted tosay.

When the sudden faintness, which was the prelude to his sickness, hadoverpowered him, he remembered being torn out of his bunk by fiercehands—remembered a vision of savage faces, and the presence of somedanger that menaced him. He remembered that, while lying on his blankets,struggling with the coming fever, he had overheard a conversation of vitalimportance to himself and to the ship, but of the purport of that conversationhe had not the least idea. In vain he strove to remember—in vain hiswill, struggling with delirium, brought back snatches and echoes of sense; theyslipped from him again as fast as caught. He was oppressed with the weight ofhalf-recollected thought. He knew that a terrible danger menaced him; thatcould he but force his brain to reason connectedly for ten consecutive minutes,he could give such information as would avert that danger, and save the ship.But, lying with hot head, parched lips, and enfeebled body, he was as onepossessed—he could move nor hand nor foot.

The place where he lay was but dimly lighted. The ingenuity of Pine hadconstructed a canvas blind over the port, to prevent the sun striking into thecabin, and this blind absorbed much of the light. He could but just see thedeck above his head, and distinguish the outlines of three other berths,apparently similar to his own. The only sounds that broke the silence were thegurgling of the water below him, and the Tap tap, Tap tap, of Pine's hammers atwork upon the new partition. By and by the noise of these hammers ceased, andthen the sick man could hear gasps, and moans, and mutterings—the signsthat his companions yet lived.

All at once a voice called out, "Of course his bills are worth four hundredpounds; but, my good sir, four hundred pounds to a man in my position is notworth the getting. Why, I've given four hundred pounds for a freak of my girlSarah! Is it right, eh, Jezebel? She's a good girl, though, as girls go. Mrs.Lionel Crofton, of the Crofts, Sevenoaks, Kent—Sevenoaks,Kent—Seven——"

A gleam of light broke in on the darkness which wrapped Rufus Dawes'stortured brain. The man was John Rex, his berth mate. With an effort hespoke.

"Rex!"

"Yes, yes. I'm coming; don't be in a hurry. The sentry's safe, and thehowitzer is but five paces from the door. A rush upon deck, lads, and she'sours! That is, mine. Mine and my wife's, Mrs. Lionel Crofton, of Seven Crofts,no oaks—Sarah Purfoy, lady's-maid and nurse—ha!ha!—lady's-maid and nurse!"

This last sentence contained the name-clue to the labyrinth in which RufusDawes's bewildered intellects were wandering. "Sarah Purfoy!" He remembered noweach detail of the conversation he had so strangely overheard, and howimperative it was that he should, without delay, reveal the plot thatthreatened the ship. How that plot was to be carried out, he did not pause toconsider; he was conscious that he was hanging over the brink of delirium, andthat, unless he made himself understood before his senses utterly deserted him,all was lost.

He attempted to rise, but found that his fever-thralled limbs refused toobey the impulse of his will. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue cloveto the roof of his mouth, and his jaws stuck together. He could not raise afinger nor utter a sound. The boards over his head waved like a shaken sheet,and the cabin whirled round, while the patch of light at his feet bobbed up anddown like the reflection from a wavering candle. He closed his eyes with aterrible sigh of despair, and resigned himself to his fate. At that instant thesound of hammering ceased, and the door opened. It was six o'clock, and Pinehad come to have a last look at his patients before dinner. It seemed thatthere was somebody with him, for a kind, though somewhat pompous, voiceremarked upon the scantiness of accommodation, and the "necessity—theabsolute necessity" of complying with the King's Regulations.

Honest Vickers, though agonized for the safety of his child, would not abatea jot of his duty, and had sternly come to visit the sick men, aware as he wasthat such a visit would necessitate his isolation from the cabin where hischild lay. Mrs. Vickers—weeping and bewailing herself coquettishly atgarrison parties—had often said that "poor dear John was such adisciplinarian, quite a slave to the service."

"Here they are," said Pine; "six of 'em. This fellow"—going to theside of Rex—"is the worst. If he had not a constitution like a horse, Idon't think he could live out the night."

"Three, eighteen, seven, four," muttered Rex; "dot and carry one. Is that anoccupation for a gentleman? No, sir. Good night, my lord, good night. Hark! Theclock is striking nine; five, six, seven, eight! Well, you've had your day, andcan't complain."

"A dangerous fellow," says Pine, with the light upraised. "A very dangerousfellow—that is, he was. This is the place, you see—a regularrat-hole; but what can one do?"

"Come, let us get on deck," said Vickers, with a shudder of disgust.

Rufus Dawes felt the sweat break out into beads on his forehead. Theysuspected nothing. They were going away. He must warn them. With a violenteffort, in his agony he turned over in the bunk and thrust out his hand fromthe blankets.

"Hullo! what's this?" cried Pine, bringing the lantern to bear upon it. "Liedown, my man. Eh!—water, is it? There, steady with it now"; and he lifteda pannikin to the blackened, froth-fringed lips. The cool draught moistened hisparched gullet, and the convict made a last effort to speak.

"Sarah Purfoy—to-night—the prison—MUTINY!"

The last word, almost shrieked out, in the sufferer's desperate efforts toarticulate, recalled the wandering senses of John Rex. "Hush!" he cried. "Isthat you, Jemmy? Sarah's right. Wait till she gives the word."

"He's raving," said Vickers.

Pine caught the convict by the shoulder. "What do you say, my man? A mutinyof the prisoners!"

With his mouth agape and his hands clenched, Rufus Dawes, incapable offurther speech, made a last effort to nod assent, but his head fell upon hisbreast; the next moment, the flickering light, the gloomy prison, the eagerface of the doctor, and the astonished face of Vickers, vanished from beforehis straining eyes. He saw the two men stare at each other, in mingledincredulity and alarm, and then he was floating down the cool brown river ofhis boyhood, on his way—in company with Sarah Purfoy and LieutenantFrere—to raise the mutiny of the Hydaspes, that lay on the stocks in theold house at Hampstead.

CHAPTER IX. WOMAN'S WEAPONS.

The two discoverers of this awkward secret held a council of war. Vickerswas for at once calling the guard, and announcing to the prisoners that theplot—whatever it might be—had been discovered; but Pine, accustomedto convict ships, overruled this decision.

"You don't know these fellows as well as I do," said he. "In the first placethere may be no mutiny at all. The whole thing is, perhaps, some absurdity ofthat fellow Dawes—and should we once put the notion of attacking us intothe prisoners' heads, there is no telling what they might do."

"But the man seemed certain," said the other. "He mentioned my wife's maid,too!"

"Suppose he did?—and, begad, I dare say he's right—I never likedthe look of the girl. To tell them that we have found them out this time won'tprevent 'em trying it again. We don't know what their scheme is either. If itis a mutiny, half the ship's company may be in it. No, Captain Vickers, allowme, as surgeon-superintendent, to settle our course of action. You are awarethat—"

"—That, by the King's Regulations, you are invested with full powers,"interrupted Vickers, mindful of discipline in any extremity. "Of course, Imerely suggested—and I know nothing about the girl, except that shebrought a good character from her last mistress—a Mrs. Crofton I thinkthe name was. We were glad to get anybody to make a voyage like this."

"Well," says Pine, "look here. Suppose we tell these scoundrels that theirdesign, whatever it may be, is known. Very good. They will profess absoluteignorance, and try again on the next opportunity, when, perhaps, we may notknow anything about it. At all events, we are completely ignorant of the natureof the plot and the names of the ringleaders. Let us double the sentries, andquietly get the men under arms. Let Miss Sarah do what she pleases, and whenthe mutiny breaks out, we will nip it in the bud; clap all the villains we getin irons, and hand them over to the authorities in Hobart Town. I am not acruel man, sir, but we have got a cargo of wild beasts aboard, and we must becareful."

"But surely, Mr. Pine, have you considered the probable loss of life?I—really—some more humane course perhaps? Prevention, youknow—"

Pine turned round upon him with that grim practicality which was a part ofhis nature. "Have you considered the safety of the ship, Captain Vickers? Youknow, or have heard of, the sort of things that take place in these mutinies.Have you considered what will befall those half-dozen women in the soldiers'berths? Have you thought of the fate of your own wife and child?"

Vickers shuddered.

"Have it your way, Mr. Pine; you know best perhaps. But don't risk morelives than you can help."

"Be easy, sir," says old Pine; "I am acting for the best; upon my soul I am.You don't know what convicts are, or rather what the law has made'em—yet—"

"Poor wretches!" says Vickers, who, like many martinets, was in realitytender-hearted. "Kindness might do much for them. After all, they are ourfellow-creatures."

"Yes," returned the other, "they are. But if you use that argument to themwhen they have taken the vessel, it won't avail you much. Let me manage, sir;and for God's sake, say nothing to anybody. Our lives may hang upon aword."

Vickers promised, and kept his promise so far as to chat cheerily with Bluntand Frere at dinner, only writing a brief note to his wife to tell her that,whatever she heard, she was not to stir from her cabin until he came to her; heknew that, with all his wife's folly, she would obey unhesitatingly, when hecouched an order in such terms.

According to the usual custom on board convict ships, the guards relievedeach other every two hours, and at six p.m. the poop guard was removed to thequarter-deck, and the arms which, in the daytime, were disposed on the top ofthe arm-chest, were placed in an arm-rack constructed on the quarter-deck forthat purpose. Trusting nothing to Frere—who, indeed, by Pine's advice,was, as we have seen, kept in ignorance of the whole matter—Vickersordered all the men, save those who had been on guard during the day, to beunder arms in the barrack, forbade communication with the upper deck, andplaced as sentry at the barrack door his own servant, an old soldier, on whosefidelity he could thoroughly rely. He then doubled the guards, took the keys ofthe prison himself from the non-commissioned officer whose duty it was to keepthem, and saw that the howitzer on the lower deck was loaded with grape. It wasa quarter to seven when Pine and he took their station at the main hatchway,determined to watch until morning.

At a quarter past seven, any curious person looking through the window ofCaptain Blunt's cabin would have seen an unusual sight. That gallant commanderwas sitting on the bed-place, with a glass of rum and water in his hand, andthe handsome waiting-maid of Mrs. Vickers was seated on a stool by his side. Ata first glance it was perceptible that the captain was very drunk. His greyhair was matted all ways about his reddened face, and he was winking andblinking like an owl in the sunshine. He had drunk a larger quantity of winethan usual at dinner, in sheer delight at the approaching assignation, andhaving got out the rum bottle for a quiet "settler" just as the victim of hisfascinations glided through the carefully-adjusted door, he had been persuadedto go on drinking.

"Cuc-come, Sarah," he hiccuped. "It's all very fine, my lass, but youneedn't be so—hic—proud, you know. I'm a plain sailor—plains'lor, Srr'h. Ph'n'as Bub—blunt, commander of the Mal-Mal- Malabar. Wors''sh good talkin'?"

Sarah allowed a laugh to escape her, and artfully protruded an ankle at thesame time. The amorous Phineas lurched over, and made shift to take herhand.

"You lovsh me, and I—hic—lovsh you, Sarah. And a preshus tightlittle craft you—hic—are. Giv'sh—kiss, Sarah."

Sarah got up and went to the door.

"Wotsh this? Goin'! Sarah, don't go," and he staggered up; and with the grogswaying fearfully in one hand, made at her.

The ship's bell struck the half-hour. Now or never was the time. Bluntcaught her round the waist with one arm, and hiccuping with love and rum,approached to take the kiss he coveted. She seized the moment, surrenderedherself to his embrace, drew from her pocket the laudanum bottle, and passingher hand over his shoulder, poured half its contents into the glass.

"Think I'm—hic—drunk, do yer? Nun—not I, my wench."

"You will be if you drink much more. Come, finish that and be quiet, or I'llgo away."

But she threw a provocation into her glance as she spoke, which belied herwords, and which penetrated even the sodden intellect of poor Blunt. Hebalanced himself on his heels for a moment, and holding by the moulding of thecabin, stared at her with a fatuous smile of drunken admiration, then looked atthe glass in his hand, hiccuped with much solemnity thrice, and, as thoughstruck with a sudden sense of duty unfulfilled, swallowed the contents at agulp. The effect was almost instantaneous. He dropped the tumbler, lurchedtowards the woman at the door, and then making a half-turn in accordance withthe motion of the vessel, fell into his bunk, and snored like a grampus.

Sarah Purfoy watched him for a few minutes, and then having blown out thelight, stepped out of the cabin, and closed the door behind her. The duskygloom which had held the deck on the previous night enveloped all forward ofthe main-mast. A lantern swung in the forecastle, and swayed with the motion ofthe ship. The light at the prison door threw a glow through the open hatch, andin the cuddy, at her right hand, the usual row of oil-lamps burned. She lookedmechanically for Vickers, who was ordinarily there at that hour, but the cuddywas empty. So much the better, she thought, as she drew her dark cloak aroundher, and tapped at Frere's door. As she did so, a strange pain shot through hertemples, and her knees trembled. With a strong effort she dispelled thedizziness that had almost overpowered her, and held herself erect. It wouldnever do to break down now.

The door opened, and Maurice Frere drew her into the cabin. "So you havecome?" said he.

"You see I have. But, oh! if I should be seen!"

"Seen? Nonsense! Who is to see you?"

"Captain Vickers, Doctor Pine, anybody."

"Not they. Besides, they've gone off down to Pine's cabin since dinner.They're all right."

Gone off to Pine's cabin! The intelligence struck her with dismay. What wasthe cause of such an unusual proceeding? Surely they did not suspect! "What dothey want there?" she asked.

Maurice Frere was not in the humour to argue questions of probability. "Whoknows? I don't. Confound 'em," he added, "what does it matter to us? We don'twant them, do we, Sarah?"

She seemed to be listening for something, and did not reply. Her nervoussystem was wound up to the highest pitch of excitement. The success of the plotdepended on the next five minutes.

"What are you staring at? Look at me, can't you? What eyes you have! Andwhat hair!"

At that instant the report of a musket-shot broke the silence. The mutinyhad begun!

The sound awoke the soldier to a sense of his duty. He sprang to his feet,and disengaging the arms that clung about his neck, made for the door. Themoment for which the convict's accomplice had waited approached. She hung uponhim with all her weight. Her long hair swept across his face, her warm breathwas on his cheek, her dress exposed her round, smooth shoulder. He,intoxicated, conquered, had half-turned back, when suddenly the rich crimsondied away from her lips, leaving them an ashen grey colour. Her eyes closed inagony; loosing her hold of him, she staggered to her feet, pressed her handsupon her bosom, and uttered a sharp cry of pain.

The fever which had been on her two days, and which, by a strong exercise ofwill, she had struggled against—encouraged by the violent excitement ofthe occasion—had attacked her at this supreme moment. Deathly pale andsick, she reeled to the side of the cabin. There was another shot, and aviolent clashing of arms; and Frere, leaving the miserable woman to her fate,leapt out on to the deck.

CHAPTER X. EIGHT BELLS.

At seven o'clock there had been also a commotion in the prison. The news ofthe fever had awoke in the convicts all that love of liberty which had butslumbered during the monotony of the earlier part of the voyage. Now that deathmenaced them, they longed fiercely for the chance of escape which seemedpermitted to freemen. "Let us get out!" they said, each man speaking to hisparticular friend. "We are locked up here to die like sheep." Gloomy faces anddesponding looks met the gaze of each, and sometimes across this gloom shot afierce glance that lighted up its blackness, as a lightning-flash rendersluridly luminous the indigo dullness of a thunder-cloud. By and by, in someinexplicable way, it came to be understood that there was a conspiracy afloat,that they were to be released from their shambles, that some amongst them hadbeen plotting for freedom. The 'tween decks held its foul breath in wonderinganxiety, afraid to breathe its suspicions. The influence of this predominantidea showed itself by a strange shifting of atoms. The mass of villainy,ignorance, and innocence began to be animated with something like a uniformmovement. Natural affinities came together, and like allied itself to like,falling noiselessly into harmony, as the pieces of glass and coloured beads ina kaleidoscope assume mathematical forms. By seven bells it was found that theprison was divided into three parties—the desperate, the timid, and thecautious. These three parties had arranged themselves in natural sequence. Themutineers, headed by Gabbett, Vetch, and the Moocher, were nearest to the door;the timid—boys, old men, innocent poor wretches condemned oncirc*mstantial evidence, or rustics condemned to be turned into thieves forpulling a turnip—were at the farther end, huddling together in alarm; andthe prudent—that is to say, all the rest, ready to fight or fly, advanceor retreat, assist the authorities or their companions, as the fortune of theday might direct—occupied the middle space. The mutineers propernumbered, perhaps, some thirty men, and of these thirty only half a dozen knewwhat was really about to be done.

The ship's bell strikes the half-hour, and as the cries of the threesentries passing the word to the quarter-deck die away, Gabbett, who has beenleaning with his back against the door, nudges Jemmy Vetch.

"Now, Jemmy," says he in a whisper, "tell 'em!"

The whisper being heard by those nearest the giant, a silence ensues, whichgradually spreads like a ripple over the surface of the crowd, reaching eventhe bunks at the further end.

"Gentlemen," says Mr. Vetch, politely sarcastic in his own hangdog fashion,"myself and my friends here are going to take the ship for you. Those who liketo join us had better speak at once, for in about half an hour they will nothave the opportunity."

He pauses, and looks round with such an impertinently confident air, thatthree waverers in the party amidships slip nearer to hear him.

"You needn't be afraid," Mr. Vetch continues, "we have arranged it all foryou. There are friends waiting for us outside, and the door will be opendirectly. All we want, gentlemen, is your vote and interest—I meanyour—"

"Gaffing agin!" interrupts the giant angrily. "Come to business, carn't yer?Tell 'em they may like it or lump it, but we mean to have the ship, and them asrefuses to join us we mean to chuck overboard. That's about the plain Englishof it!"

This practical way of putting it produces a sensation, and the conservativeparty at the other end look in each other's faces with some alarm. A grimmurmur runs round, and somebody near Mr. Gabbett laughs a laugh of mingledferocity and amusem*nt, not reassuring to timid people. "What about thesogers?" asked a voice from the ranks of the cautious.

"D—- the sogers!" cries the Moocher, moved by a sudden inspiration."They can but shoot yer, and that's as good as dyin' of typhus anyway!"

The right chord had been struck now, and with a stifled roar the prisonadmitted the truth of the sentiment. "Go on, old man!" cries Jemmy Vetch to thegiant, rubbing his thin hands with eldritch glee. "They're all right!" Andthen, his quick ears catching the jingle of arms, he said, "Stand by now forthe door—one rush'll do it."

It was eight o'clock and the relief guard was coming from the after deck.The crowd of prisoners round the door held their breath to listen. "It's allplanned," says Gabbett, in a low growl. "W'en the door h'opens we rush, andwe're in among the guard afore they know where they are. Drag 'em back into theprison, grab the h'arm-rack, and it's all over."

"They're very quiet about it," says the Crow suspiciously. "I hope it's allright."

"Stand from the door, Miles," says Pine's voice outside, in its usual calmaccents.

The Crow was relieved. The tone was an ordinary one, and Miles was thesoldier whom Sarah Purfoy had bribed not to fire. All had gone well.

The keys clashed and turned, and the bravest of the prudent party, who hadbeen turning in his mind the notion of risking his life for a pardon, to be wonby rushing forward at the right moment and alarming the guard, checked the crythat was in his throat as he saw the men round the door draw back a little fortheir rush, and caught a glimpse of the giant's bristling scalp and baredgums.

"Now!" cries Jemmy Vetch, as the iron-plated oak swung back, and withthe guttural snarl of a charging wild boar, Gabbett hurled himself out of theprison.

The red line of light which glowed for an instant through the doorway wasblotted out by a mass of figures. All the prison surged forward, and before theeye could wink, five, ten, twenty, of the most desperate were outside. It wasas though a sea, breaking against a stone wall, had found some breach throughwhich to pour its waters. The contagion of battle spread. Caution wasforgotten; and those at the back, seeing Jemmy Vetch raised upon the crest ofthat human billow which reared its black outline against an indistinctperspective of struggling figures, responded to his grin of encouragement byrushing furiously forward.

Suddenly a horrible roar like that of a trapped wild beast was heard. Therushing torrent choked in the doorway, and from out the lantern glow into whichthe giant had rushed, a flash broke, followed by a groan, as the perfidioussentry fell back shot through the breast. The mass in the doorway hungirresolute, and then by sheer weight of pressure from behind burst forward, andas it so burst, the heavy door crashed into its jambs, and the bolts were shotinto their places.

All this took place by one of those simultaneous movements which are sorapid in execution, so tedious to describe in detail. At one instant the prisondoor had opened, at the next it had closed. The picture which had presenteditself to the eyes of the convicts was as momentary as are those of thethaumatoscope. The period of time that had elapsed between the opening and theshutting of the door could have been marked by the musket shot.

The report of another shot, and then a noise of confused cries, mingled withthe clashing of arms, informed the imprisoned men that the ship had beenalarmed. How would it go with their friends on deck? Would they succeed inovercoming the guards, or would they be beaten back? They would soon know; andin the hot dusk, straining their eyes to see each other, they waited for theissue Suddenly the noises ceased, and a strange rumbling sound fell upon theears of the listeners.

*

What had taken place?

This—the men pouring out of the darkness into the sudden glare of thelanterns, rushed, bewildered, across the deck. Miles, true to his promise, didnot fire, but the next instant Vickers had snatched the firelock from him, andleaping into the stream, turned about and fired down towards the prison. Theattack was more sudden then he had expected, but he did not lose his presenceof mind. The shot would serve a double purpose. It would warn the men in thebarrack, and perhaps check the rush by stopping up the doorway with a corpse.Beaten back, struggling, and indignant, amid the storm of hideous faces, hishumanity vanished, and he aimed deliberately at the head of Mr. James Vetch;the shot, however, missed its mark, and killed the unhappy Miles.

Gabbett and his companions had by this time reached the foot of thecompanion ladder, there to encounter the cutlasses of the doubled guardgleaming redly in the glow of the lanterns. A glance up the hatchway showed thegiant that the arms he had planned to seize were defended by ten firelocks, andthat, behind the open doors of the partition which ran abaft the mizenmast, theremainder of the detachment stood to their arms. Even his dull intellectcomprehended that the desperate project had failed, and that he had beenbetrayed. With the roar of despair which had penetrated into the prison, heturned to fight his way back, just in time to see the crowd in the gangwayrecoil from the flash of the musket fired by Vickers. The next instant, Pineand two soldiers, taking advantage of the momentary cessation of the press,shot the bolts, and secured the prison.

The mutineers were caught in a trap.

The narrow space between the barracks and the barricade was choked withstruggling figures. Some twenty convicts, and half as many soldiers, struck andstabbed at each other in the crowd. There was barely elbow-room, and attackedand attackers fought almost without knowing whom they struck. Gabbett tore acutlass from a soldier, shook his huge head, and calling on the Moocher tofollow, bounded up the ladder, desperately determined to brave the fire of thewatch. The Moocher, close at the giant's heels, flung himself upon the nearestsoldier, and grasping his wrist, struggled for the cutlass. A brawny,bull-necked fellow next him dashed his clenched fist in the soldier's face, andthe man maddened by the blow, let go the cutlass, and drawing his pistol, shothis new assailant through the head. It was this second shot that had arousedMaurice Frere.

As the young lieutenant sprang out upon the deck, he saw by the position ofthe guard that others had been more mindful of the safety of the ship than he.There was, however, no time for explanation, for, as he reached the hatchway,he was met by the ascending giant, who uttered a hideous oath at the sight ofthis unexpected adversary, and, too close to strike him, locked him in hisarms. The two men were drawn together. The guard on the quarter-deck dared notfire at the two bodies that, twined about each other, rolled across the deck,and for a moment Mr. Frere's cherished existence hung upon the slenderestthread imaginable.

The Moocher, spattered with the blood and brains of his unfortunate comrade,had already set his foot upon the lowest step of the ladder, when the cutlasswas dashed from his hand by a blow from a clubbed firelock, and he was draggedroughly backwards. As he fell upon the deck, he saw the Crow spring out of themass of prisoners who had been, an instant before, struggling with the guard,and, gaining the cleared space at the bottom of the ladder, hold up his hands,as though to shield himself from a blow. The confusion had now become suddenlystilled, and upon the group before the barricade had fallen that mysterioussilence which had perplexed the inmates of the prison.

They were not perplexed for long. The two soldiers who, with the assistanceof Pine, had forced-to the door of the prison, rapidly unbolted that trap-doorin the barricade, of which mention has been made in a previous chapter, and, ata signal from Vickers, three men ran the loaded howitzer from its sinistershelter near the break of the barrack berths, and, training the deadly muzzleto a level with the opening in the barricade, stood ready to fire.

"Surrender!" cried Vickers, in a voice from which all "humanity" hadvanished. "Surrender, and give up your ringleaders, or I'll blow you topieces!"

There was no tremor in his voice, and though he stood, with Pine by hisside, at the very mouth of the levelled cannon, the mutineers perceived, withthat acuteness which imminent danger brings to the most stolid of brains, that,did they hesitate an instant, he would keep his word. There was an awful momentof silence, broken only by a skurrying noise in the prison, as though a familyof rats, disturbed at a flour cask, were scampering to the ship's side forshelter. This skurrying noise was made by the convicts rushing to their berthsto escape the threatened shower of grape; to the twenty desperadoes coweringbefore the muzzle of the howitzer it spoke more eloquently than words. Thecharm was broken; their comrades would refuse to join them. The position ofaffairs at this crisis was a strange one. From the opened trap-door came a sortof subdued murmur, like that which sounds within the folds of a sea-shell, but,in the oblong block of darkness which it framed, nothing was visible. Thetrap-door might have been a window looking into a tunnel. On each side of thishorrible window, almost pushed before it by the pressure of one upon the other,stood Pine, Vickers, and the guard. In front of the little group lay the corpseof the miserable boy whom Sarah Purfoy had led to ruin; and forced close upon,yet shrinking back from the trampled and bloody mass, crouched in mingledterror and rage, the twenty mutineers. Behind the mutineers, withdrawn from thepatch of light thrown by the open hatchway, the mouth of the howitzerthreatened destruction; and behind the howitzer, backed up by an array of brownmusket barrels, suddenly glowed the tiny fire of the burning match in the handof Vickers's trusty servant.

The entrapped men looked up the hatchway, but the guard had already closedin upon it, and some of the ship's crew—with that carelessness of dangercharacteristic of sailors—were peering down upon them. Escape washopeless.

"One minute!" cried Vickers, confident that one second would beenough—"one minute to go quietly, or—"

"Surrender, mates, for God's sake!" shrieked some unknown wretch from out ofthe darkness of the prison. "Do you want to be the death of us?"

Jemmy Vetch, feeling, by that curious sympathy which nervous naturespossess, that his comrades wished him to act as spokesman, raised his shrilltones. "We surrender," he said. "It's no use getting our brains blown out." Andraising his hands, he obeyed the motion of Vickers's fingers, and led the waytowards the barrack.

"Bring the irons forward, there!" shouted Vickers, hastening from hisperilous position; and before the last man had filed past the still smokingmatch, the cling of hammers announced that the Crow had resumed those fetterswhich had been knocked off his dainty limbs a month previously in the Bay ofBiscay.

In another moment the trap-door was closed, the howitzer rumbled back to itscleatings, and the prison breathed again.

*

In the meantime, a scene almost as exciting had taken place on the upperdeck. Gabbett, with the blind fury which the consciousness of failure brings tosuch brute-like natures, had seized Frere by the throat, determined to put anend to at least one of his enemies. But desperate though he was, and with allthe advantage of weight and strength upon his side, he found the younglieutenant a more formidable adversary than he had anticipated.

Maurice Frere was no coward. Brutal and selfish though he might be, hisbitterest enemies had never accused him of lack of physical courage. Indeed, hehad been—in the rollicking days of old that were gone—celebratedfor the display of very opposite qualities. He was an amateur at manly sports.He rejoiced in his muscular strength, and, in many a tavern brawl and midnightriot of his own provoking, had proved the fallacy of the proverb which teachesthat a bully is always a coward. He had the tenacity of a bulldog—oncelet him get his teeth in his adversary, and he would hold on till he died. Infact he was, as far as personal vigour went, a Gabbett with the education of aprize-fighter; and, in a personal encounter between two men of equal courage,science tells more than strength. In the struggle, however, that was now takingplace, science seemed to be of little value. To the inexperienced eye, it wouldappear that the frenzied giant, gripping the throat of the man who had fallenbeneath him, must rise from the struggle an easy victor. Brute force was allthat was needed—there was neither room nor time for the display of anycunning of fence.

But knowledge, though it cannot give strength, gives coolness. Taken bysurprise as he was, Maurice Frere did not lose his presence of mind. Theconvict was so close upon him that there was no time to strike; but, as he wasforced backwards, he succeeded in crooking his knee round the thigh of hisassailant, and thrust one hand into his collar. Over and over they rolled, thebewildered sentry not daring to fire, until the ship's side brought them upwith a violent jerk, and Frere realized that Gabbett was below him. Pressingwith all the might of his muscles, he strove to resist the leverage which thegiant was applying to turn him over, but he might as well have pushed against astone wall. With his eyes protruding, and every sinew strained to itsuttermost, he was slowly forced round, and he felt Gabbett releasing his grasp,in order to draw back and aim at him an effectual blow. Disengaging his lefthand, Frere suddenly allowed himself to sink, and then, drawing up his rightknee, struck Gabbett beneath the jaw, and as the huge head was forced backwardsby the blow, dashed his fist into the brawny throat. The giant reeledbackwards, and, falling on his hands and knees, was in an instant surrounded bysailors.

Now began and ended, in less time than it takes to write it, one of thoseHomeric struggles of one man against twenty, which are none the less heroicbecause the Ajax is a convict, and the Trojans merely ordinary sailors. Shakinghis assailants to the deck as easily as a wild boar shakes off the dogs whichclamber upon his bristly sides, the convict sprang to his feet, and, whirlingthe snatched-up cutlass round his head, kept the circle at bay. Four times didthe soldiers round the hatchway raise their muskets, and four times did thefear of wounding the men who had flung themselves upon the enraged giant compelthem to restrain their fire. Gabbett, his stubbly hair on end, his bloodshoteyes glaring with fury, his great hand opening and shutting in air, as thoughit gasped for something to seize, turned himself about from side toside—now here, now there, bellowing like a wounded bull. His coarseshirt, rent from shoulder to flank, exposed the play of his huge muscles. Hewas bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and the blood, trickling down hisface, mingled with the foam on his lips, and dropped sluggishly on his hairybreast. Each time that an assailant came within reach of the swinging cutlass,the ruffian's form dilated with a fresh access of passion. At one momentbunched with clinging adversaries—his arms, legs, and shoulders a hangingmass of human bodies—at the next, free, desperate, alone in the midst ofhis foes, his hideous countenance contorted with hate and rage, the giantseemed less a man than a demon, or one of those monstrous and savage apes whichhaunt the solitudes of the African forests. Spurning the mob who had rushed inat him, he strode towards his risen adversary, and aimed at him one final blowthat should put an end to his tyranny for ever. A notion that Sarah Purfoy hadbetrayed him, and that the handsome soldier was the cause of the betrayal, hadtaken possession of his mind, and his rage had concentrated itself upon MauriceFrere. The aspect of the villain was so appalling, that, despite his naturalcourage, Frere, seeing the backward sweep of the cutlass, absolutely closed hiseyes with terror, and surrendered himself to his fate.

As Gabbett balanced himself for the blow, the ship, which had been rockinggently on a dull and silent sea, suddenly lurched—the convict lost hisbalance, swayed, and fell. Ere he could rise he was pinioned by twentyhands.

Authority was almost instantaneously triumphant on the upper and lowerdecks. The mutiny was over.

CHAPTER XI. DISCOVERIES AND CONFESSIONS.

The shock was felt all through the vessel, and Pine, who had been watchingthe ironing of the last of the mutineers, at once divined its cause.

"Thank God!" he cried, "there's a breeze at last!" and as the overpoweredGabbett, bruised, bleeding, and bound, was dragged down the hatchway, thetriumphant doctor hurried upon deck to find the Malabar plunging through thewhitening water under the influence of a fifteen-knot breeze.

"Stand by to reef topsails! Away aloft, men, and furl the royals!" criesBest from the quarter-deck; and in the midst of the cheery confusion MauriceFrere briefly recapitulated what had taken place, taking care, however, to passover his own dereliction of duty as rapidly as possible.

Pine knit his brows. "Do you think that she was in the plot?" he asked.

"Not she!" says Frere—eager to avert inquiry. "How should she be?Plot! She's sickening of fever, or I'm much mistaken."

Sure enough, on opening the door of the cabin, they found Sarah Purfoy lyingwhere she had fallen a quarter of an hour before. The clashing of cutlasses andthe firing of muskets had not roused her.

"We must make a sick-bay somewhere," says Pine, looking at the senselessfigure with no kindly glance; "though I don't think she's likely to be verybad. Confound her! I believe that she's the cause of all this. I'll find out,too, before many hours are over; for I've told those fellows that unless theyconfess all about it before to-morrow morning, I'll get them six dozen a-piecethe day after we anchor in Hobart Town. I've a great mind to do it before weget there. Take her head, Frere, and we'll get her out of this before Vickerscomes up. What a fool you are, to be sure! I knew what it would be with womenaboard ship. I wonder Mrs. V. hasn't been out before now. There—steadypast the door. Why, man, one would think you never had your arm round a girl'swaist before! Pooh! don't look so scared—I won't tell. Make haste, now,before that little parson comes. Parsons are regular old women to chatter"; andthus muttering Pine assisted to carry Mrs. Vickers's maid into her cabin.

"By George, but she's a fine girl!" he said, viewing the inanimate body withthe professional eye of a surgeon. "I don't wonder at you making a fool ofyourself. Chances are, you've caught the fever, though this breeze will help toblow it out of us, please God. That old jackass, Blunt, too!—he ought tobe ashamed of himself, at his age!"

"What do you mean?" asked Frere hastily, as he heard a step approach. "Whathas Blunt to say about her?"

"Oh, I don't know," returned Pine. "He was smitten too, that's all. Like agood many more, in fact."

"A good many more!" repeated the other, with a pretence of carelessness.

"Yes!" laughed Pine. "Why, man, she was making eyes at every man in theship! I caught her kissing a soldier once."

Maurice Frere's cheeks grew hot. The experienced profligate had been takenin, deceived, perhaps laughed at. All the time he had flattered himself that hewas fascinating the black-eyed maid, the black-eyed maid had been twisting himround her finger, and perhaps imitating his love-making for the gratificationof her soldier-lover. It was not a pleasant thought; and yet, strange to say,the idea of Sarah's treachery did not make him dislike her. There is a sort oflove—if love it can be called—which thrives under ill-treatment.Nevertheless, he cursed with some appearance of disgust.

Vickers met them at the door. "Pine, Blunt has the fever. Mr. Best found himin his cabin groaning. Come and look at him."

The commander of the Malabar was lying on his bunk in the betwistedcondition into which men who sleep in their clothes contrive to get themselves.The doctor shook him, bent down over him, and then loosened his collar. "He'snot sick," he said; "he's drunk! Blunt! wake up! Blunt!"

But the mass refused to move.

"Hallo!" says Pine, smelling at the broken tumbler, "what's this? Smellsqueer. Rum? No. Eh! Laudanum! By George, he's been hocussed!"

"Nonsense!"

"I see it," slapping his thigh. "It's that infernal woman! She's druggedhim, and meant to do the same for"—(Frere gave him an imploringlook)—"for anybody else who would be fool enough to let her do it. Daweswas right, sir. She's in it; I'll swear she's in it."

"What! my wife's maid? Nonsense!" said Vickers.

"Nonsense!" echoed Frere.

"It's no nonsense. That soldier who was shot, what's his name?—Miles,he—but, however, it doesn't matter. It's all over now." "The men willconfess before morning," says Vickers, "and we'll see." And he went off to hiswife's cabin.

His wife opened the door for him. She had been sitting by the child'sbedside, listening to the firing, and waiting for her husband's return withouta murmur. Flirt, fribble, and shrew as she was, Julia Vickers had displayed, intimes of emergency, that glowing courage which women of her nature at timespossess. Though she would yawn over any book above the level of a genteel lovestory; attempt to fascinate, with ludicrous assumption of girlishness, boysyoung enough to be her sons; shudder at a frog, and scream at a spider, shecould sit throughout a quarter of an hour of such suspense as she had justundergone with as much courage as if she had been the strongest-minded womanthat ever denied her sex. "Is it all over?" she asked.

"Yes, thank God!" said Vickers, pausing on the threshold. "All is safe now,though we had a narrow escape, I believe. How's Sylvia?" The child was lying onthe bed with her fair hair scattered over the pillow, and her tiny hands movingrestlessly to and fro.

"A little better, I think, though she has been talking a good deal."

The red lips parted, and the blue eyes, brighter than ever, stared vacantlyaround. The sound of her father's voice seemed to have roused her, for shebegan to speak a little prayer: "God bless papa and mamma, and God bless all onboard this ship. God bless me, and make me a good girl, for Jesus Christ'ssake, our Lord. Amen."

The sound of the unconscious child's simple prayer had something awesome init, and John Vickers, who, not ten minutes before, would have sealed his owndeath warrant unhesitatingly to preserve the safety of the vessel, felt hiseyes fill with unwonted tears. The contrast was curious. From out the midst ofthat desolate ocean—in a fever-smitten prison ship, leagues from land,surrounded by ruffians, thieves, and murderers, the baby voice of an innocentchild called confidently on Heaven.

*

Two hours afterwards—as the Malabar, escaped from the peril which hadmenaced her, plunged cheerily through the rippling water—the mutineers,by the spokesman, Mr. James Vetch, confessed.

"They were very sorry, and hoped that their breach of discipline would beforgiven. It was the fear of the typhus which had driven them to it. They hadno accomplices either in the prison or out of it, but they felt it but right tosay that the man who had planned the mutiny was Rufus Dawes."

The malignant cripple had guessed from whom the information which had led tothe failure of the plot had been derived, and this was his characteristicrevenge.

CHAPTER XII. A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.

Extracted from the Hobart Town Courier of the 12th November,1827:—

"The examination of the prisoners who were concerned in the attempt upon theMalabar was concluded on Tuesday last. The four ringleaders, Dawes Gabbett,Vetch, and Sanders, were condemned to death; but we understand that, by theclemency of his Excellency the Governor, their sentence has been commuted tosix years at the penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour."

END OF BOOK ONE

BOOK II.—MACQUARIE HARBOUR. 1833.

CHAPTER I. THE TOPOGRAPHY OF VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.

The south-east coast of Van Diemen's Land, from the solitary Mewstone to thebasaltic cliffs of Tasman's Head, from Tasman's Head to Cape Pillar, and fromCape Pillar to the rugged grandeur of Pirates' Bay, resembles a biscuit atwhich rats have been nibbling. Eaten away by the continual action of the oceanwhich, pouring round by east and west, has divided the peninsula from themainland of the Australasian continent—and done for Van Diemen's Landwhat it has done for the Isle of Wight—the shore line is broken andragged. Viewed upon the map, the fantastic fragments of island and promontorywhich lie scattered between the South-West Cape and the greater Swan Port, arelike the curious forms assumed by melted lead spilt into water. If thesupposition were not too extravagant, one might imagine that when theAustralian continent was fused, a careless giant upset the crucible, and spiltVan Diemen's land in the ocean. The coast navigation is as dangerous as that ofthe Mediterranean. Passing from Cape Bougainville to the east of Maria Island,and between the numerous rocks and shoals which lie beneath the triple heightof the Three Thumbs, the mariner is suddenly checked by Tasman's Peninsula,hanging, like a huge double-dropped ear-ring, from the mainland. Getting roundunder the Pillar rock through Storm Bay to Storing Island, we sight the Italyof this miniature Adriatic. Between Hobart Town and Sorrell, Pittwater and theDerwent, a strangely-shaped point of land—the Italian boot with its toebent upwards—projects into the bay, and, separated from this projectionby a narrow channel, dotted with rocks, the long length of Bruny Island makes,between its western side and the cliffs of Mount Royal, the dangerous passageknown as D'Entrecasteaux Channel. At the southern entrance of D'EntrecasteauxChannel, a line of sunken rocks, known by the generic name of the Actaeon reef,attests that Bruny Head was once joined with the shores of Recherche Bay;while, from the South Cape to the jaws of Macquarie Harbour, the white watercaused by sunken reefs, or the jagged peaks of single rocks abruptly rising inmid sea, warn the mariner off shore.

It would seem as though nature, jealous of the beauties of her silverDerwent, had made the approach to it as dangerous as possible; but once throughthe archipelago of D'Entrecasteaux Channel, or the less dangerous easternpassage of Storm Bay, the voyage up the river is delightful. From the sentinelsolitude of the Iron Pot to the smiling banks of New Norfolk, the river windsin a succession of reaches, narrowing to a deep channel cleft between ruggedand towering cliffs. A line drawn due north from the source of the Derwentwould strike another river winding out from the northern part of the island, asthe Derwent winds out from the south. The force of the waves, expended,perhaps, in destroying the isthmus which, two thousand years ago, probablyconnected Van Diemen's Land with the continent has been here less violent. Therounding currents of the Southern Ocean, meeting at the mouth of the Tamar,have rushed upwards over the isthmus they have devoured, and pouring againstthe south coast of Victoria, have excavated there that inland sea called PortPhilip Bay. If the waves have gnawed the south coast of Van Diemen's Land, theyhave bitten a mouthful out of the south coast of Victoria. The Bay is amillpool, having an area of nine hundred square miles, with a race between theheads two miles across.

About a hundred and seventy miles to the south of this mill-race lies VanDiemen's Land, fertile, fair, and rich, rained upon by the genial showers fromthe clouds which, attracted by the Frenchman's Cap, Wyld's Crag, or the loftypeaks of the Wellington and Dromedary range, pour down upon the shelteredvalleys their fertilizing streams. No parching hot wind—the scavenger, ifthe torment, of the continent—blows upon her crops and corn. The coolsouth breeze ripples gently the blue waters of the Derwent, and fans thecurtains of the open windows of the city which nestles in the broad shadow ofMount Wellington. The hot wind, born amid the burning sand of the interior ofthe vast Australian continent, sweeps over the scorched and cracking plains, tolick up their streams and wither the herbage in its path, until it meets thewaters of the great south bay; but in its passage across the straits it is reftof its fire, and sinks, exhausted with its journey, at the feet of the terracedslopes of Launceston.

The climate of Van Diemen's Land is one of the loveliest in the world.Launceston is warm, sheltered, and moist; and Hobart Town, protected by BrunyIsland and its archipelago of D'Entrecasteaux Channel and Storm Bay from theviolence of the southern breakers, preserves the mean temperature of Smyrna;whilst the district between these two towns spreads in a succession ofbeautiful valleys, through which glide clear and sparkling streams. But on thewestern coast, from the steeple-rocks of Cape Grim to the scrub-encircledbarrenness of Sandy Cape, and the frowning entrance to Macquarie Harbour, thenature of the country entirely changes. Along that iron-bound shore, fromPyramid Island and the forest-backed solitude of Rocky Point, to the great RamHead, and the straggling harbour of Port Davey, all is bleak and cheerless.Upon that dreary beach the rollers of the southern sea complete their circuitof the globe, and the storm that has devastated the Cape, and united in itseastern course with the icy blasts which sweep northward from the unknownterrors of the southern pole, crashes unchecked upon the Huon pine forests, andlashes with rain the grim front of Mount Direction. Furious gales and suddentempests affright the natives of the coast. Navigation is dangerous, and theentrance to the "Hell's Gates" of Macquarie Harbour—at the time of whichwe are writing (1833), in the height of its ill-fame as a convictsettlement—is only to be attempted in calm weather. The sea-line ismarked with wrecks. The sunken rocks are dismally named after the vessels theyhave destroyed. The air is chill and moist, the soil prolific only in pricklyundergrowth and noxious weeds, while foetid exhalations from swamp and fencling close to the humid, spongy ground. All around breathes desolation; on theface of nature is stamped a perpetual frown. The shipwrecked sailor, crawlingpainfully to the summit of basalt cliffs, or the ironed convict, dragging histree trunk to the edge of some beetling plateau, looks down upon a sea of fog,through which rise mountain-tops like islands; or sees through the biting sleeta desert of scrub and crag rolling to the feet of Mount Heemskirk and MountZeehan—crouched like two sentinel lions keeping watch over theseaboard.

CHAPTER II. THE SOLITARY OF "HELL'S GATES".

"Hell's Gates," formed by a rocky point, which runs abruptly northward,almost touches, on its eastern side, a projecting arm of land which guards theentrance to King's River. In the middle of the gates is a naturalbolt—that is to say, an island-which, lying on a sandy bar in the veryjaws of the current, creates a double whirlpool, impossible to pass in thesmoothest weather. Once through the gates, the convict, chained on the deck ofthe inward-bound vessel, sees in front of him the bald cone of the Frenchman'sCap, piercing the moist air at a height of five thousand feet; while, gloomedby overhanging rocks, and shadowed by gigantic forests, the black sides of thebasin narrow to the mouth of the Gordon. The turbulent stream is the colour ofindigo, and, being fed by numerous rivulets, which ooze through masses ofdecaying vegetable matter, is of so poisonous a nature that it is not onlyundrinkable, but absolutely kills the fish, which in stormy weather are drivenin from the sea. As may be imagined, the furious tempests which beat upon thisexposed coast create a strong surf-line. After a few days of north-west windthe waters of the Gordon will be found salt for twelve miles up from the bar.The head-quarters of the settlement were placed on an island not far from themouth of this inhospitable river, called Sarah Island.

Though now the whole place is desolate, and a few rotting posts and logsalone remain-mute witnesses of scenes of agony never to be revived—in theyear 1833 the buildings were numerous and extensive. On Philip's Island, on thenorth side of the harbour, was a small farm, where vegetables were grown forthe use of the officers of the establishment; and, on Sarah Island, weresawpits, forges, dockyards, gaol, guard-house, barracks, and jetty. Themilitary force numbered about sixty men, who, with convict-warders andconstables, took charge of more than three hundred and fifty prisoners. Thesemiserable wretches, deprived of every hope, were employed in the most degradinglabour. No beast of burden was allowed on the settlement; all the pulling anddragging was done by human beings. About one hundred "good-conduct" men wereallowed the lighter toil of dragging timber to the wharf, to assist inshipbuilding; the others cut down the trees that fringed the mainland, andcarried them on their shoulders to the water's edge. The denseness of the scruband bush rendered it necessary for a "roadway," perhaps a quarter of a mile inlength, to be first constructed; and the trunks of trees, stripped of theirbranches, were rolled together in this roadway, until a "slide" was made, downwhich the heavier logs could be shunted towards the harbour. The timber thusobtained was made into rafts, and floated to the sheds, or arranged fortransportation to Hobart Town. The convicts were lodged on Sarah Island, inbarracks flanked by a two-storied prison, whose "cells" were the terror of themost hardened. Each morning they received their breakfast of porridge, water,and salt, and then rowed, under the protection of their guard, to thewood-cutting stations, where they worked without food, until night. Thelaunching and hewing of the timber compelled them to work up to their waists inwater. Many of them were heavily ironed. Those who died were buried on a littleplot of ground, called Halliday's Island (from the name of the first man buriedthere), and a plank stuck into the earth, and carved with the initials of thedeceased, was the only monument vouchsafed him.

Sarah Island, situated at the south-east corner of the harbour, is long andlow. The commandant's house was built in the centre, having the chaplain'shouse and barracks between it and the gaol. The hospital was on the west shore,and in a line with it lay the two penitentiaries. Lines of lofty palisades ranround the settlement, giving it the appearance of a fortified town. Thesepalisades were built for the purpose of warding off the terrific blasts ofwind, which, shrieking through the long and narrow bay as through the keyholeof a door, had in former times tore off roofs and levelled boat-sheds. Thelittle town was set, as it were, in defiance of Nature, at the very extreme ofcivilization, and its inhabitants maintained perpetual warfare with the windsand waves.

But the gaol of Sarah Island was not the only prison in this desolateregion.

At a little distance from the mainland is a rock, over the rude side ofwhich the waves dash in rough weather. On the evening of the 3rd December,1833, as the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops on the left side of theharbour, the figure of a man appeared on the top of this rock. He was clad inthe coarse garb of a convict, and wore round his ankles two iron rings,connected by a short and heavy chain. To the middle of this chain a leathernstrap was attached, which, splitting in the form of a T, buckled round hiswaist, and pulled the chain high enough to prevent him from stumbling over itas he walked. His head was bare, and his coarse, blue-striped shirt, open atthe throat, displayed an embrowned and muscular neck. Emerging from out a sortof cell, or den, contrived by nature or art in the side of the cliff, he threwon a scanty fire, which burned between two hollowed rocks, a small log of pinewood, and then returning to his cave, and bringing from it an iron pot, whichcontained water, he scooped with his toil-hardened hands a resting-place for itin the ashes, and placed it on the embers. It was evident that the cave was atonce his storehouse and larder, and that the two hollowed rocks formed hiskitchen.

Having thus made preparations for supper, he ascended a pathway which led tothe highest point of the rock. His fetters compelled him to take short steps,and, as he walked, he winced as though the iron bit him. A handkerchief orstrip of cloth was twisted round his left ankle; on which the circlet hadchafed a sore. Painfully and slowly, he gained his destination, and flinginghimself on the ground, gazed around him. The afternoon had been stormy, and therays of the setting sun shone redly on the turbid and rushing waters of thebay. On the right lay Sarah Island; on the left the bleak shore of the oppositeand the tall peak of the Frenchman's Cap; while the storm hung sullenly overthe barren hills to the eastward. Below him appeared the only sign of life. Abrig was being towed up the harbour by two convict-manned boats.

The sight of this brig seemed to rouse in the mind of the solitary of therock a strain of reflection, for, sinking his chin upon his hand, he fixed hiseyes on the incoming vessel, and immersed himself in moody thought. More thanan hour had passed, yet he did not move. The ship anchored, the boats detachedthemselves from her sides, the sun sank, and the bay was plunged in gloom.Lights began to twinkle along the shore of the settlement. The little firedied, and the water in the iron pot grew cold; yet the watcher on the rock didnot stir. With his eyes staring into the gloom, and fixed steadily on thevessel, he lay along the barren cliff of his lonely prison as motionless as therock on which he had stretched himself.

This solitary man was Rufus Dawes.

CHAPTER III. A SOCIAL EVENING.

In the house of Major Vickers, Commandant of Macquarie Harbour, there was,on this evening of December 3rd, unusual gaiety.

Lieutenant Maurice Frere, late in command at Maria Island, had unexpectedlycome down with news from head-quarters. The Ladybird, Government schooner,visited the settlement on ordinary occasions twice a year, and such visits werelooked forward to with no little eagerness by the settlers. To the convicts thearrival of the Ladybird meant arrival of new faces, intelligence of oldcomrades, news of how the world, from which they were exiled, was progressing.When the Ladybird arrived, the chained and toil-worn felons felt that they wereyet human, that the universe was not bounded by the gloomy forests whichsurrounded their prison, but that there was a world beyond, where men, likethemselves, smoked, and drank, and laughed, and rested, and were Free. When theLadybird arrived, they heard such news as interested them—that is to say,not mere foolish accounts of wars or ship arrivals, or city gossip, but mattersappertaining to their own world—how Tom was with the road gangs, Dick ona ticket-of-leave, Harry taken to the bush, and Jack hung at the Hobart TownGaol. Such items of intelligence were the only news they cared to hear, and thenew-comers were well posted up in such matters. To the convicts the Ladybirdwas town talk, theatre, stock quotations, and latest telegrams. She was theirnewspaper and post-office, the one excitement of their dreary existence, theone link between their own misery and the happiness of their fellow-creatures.To the Commandant and the "free men" this messenger from the outer life wasscarcely less welcome. There was not a man on the island who did not feel hisheart grow heavier when her white sails disappeared behind the shoulder of thehill.

On the present occasion business of more than ordinary importance hadprocured for Major Vickers this pleasurable excitement. It had been resolved byGovernor Arthur that the convict establishment should be broken up. Asuccession of murders and attempted escapes had called public attention to theplace, and its distance from Hobart Town rendered it inconvenient andexpensive. Arthur had fixed upon Tasman's Peninsula—the earring of whichwe have spoken—as a future convict depôt, and naming it PortArthur, in honour of himself, had sent down Lieutenant Maurice Frere withinstructions for Vickers to convey the prisoners of Macquarie Harbourthither.

In order to understand the magnitude and meaning of such an order as thatwith which Lieutenant Frere was entrusted, we must glance at the socialcondition of the penal colony at this period of its history.

Nine years before, Colonel Arthur, late Governor of Honduras, had arrived ata most critical moment. The former Governor, Colonel Sorrell, was a man ofgenial temperament, but little strength of character. He was, moreover,profligate in his private life; and, encouraged by his example, his officersviolated all rules of social decency. It was common for an officer to openlykeep a female convict as his mistress. Not only would compliance purchasecomforts, but strange stories were afloat concerning the persecution of womenwho dared to choose their own lovers. To put down this profligacy was the firstcare of Arthur; and in enforcing a severe attention to etiquette and outwardrespectability, he perhaps erred on the side of virtue. Honest, brave, andhigh-minded, he was also penurious and cold, and the ostentatious good humourof the colonists dashed itself in vain against his polite indifference. Inopposition to this official society created by Governor Arthur was that of thefree settlers and the ticket-of-leave men. The latter were more numerous thanone would be apt to suppose. On the 2nd November, 1829, thirty-eight freepardons and fifty-six conditional pardons appeared on the books; and the numberof persons holding tickets-of-leave, on the 26th of September the same year,was seven hundred and forty-five.

Of the social condition of these people at this time it is impossible tospeak without astonishment. According to the recorded testimony of manyrespectable persons-Government officials, military officers, and freesettlers-the profligacy of the settlers was notorious. Drunkenness was aprevailing vice. Even children were to be seen in the streets intoxicated. OnSundays, men and women might be observed standing round the public-house doors,waiting for the expiration of the hours of public worship, in order to continuetheir carousing. As for the condition of the prisoner population, that, indeed,is indescribable. Notwithstanding the severe punishment for sly grog-selling,it was carried on to a large extent. Men and women were found intoxicatedtogether, and a bottle of brandy was considered to be cheaply bought at theprice of twenty lashes. In the factory—a prison for females—thevilest abuses were committed, while the infamies current, as matters of course,in chain gangs and penal settlements, were of too horrible a nature to be morethan hinted at here. All that the vilest and most bestial of human creaturescould invent and practise, was in this unhappy country invented and practisedwithout restraint and without shame.

Seven classes of criminals were established in 1826, when the new barracksfor prisoners at Hobart Town were finished. The first class were allowed tosleep out of barracks, and to work for themselves on Saturday; the second hadonly the last-named indulgence; the third were only allowed Saturday afternoon;the fourth and fifth were "refractory and disorderly characters—to workin irons;" the sixth were "men of the most degraded and incorrigiblecharacter—to be worked in irons, and kept entirely separate from theother prisoners;" while the seventh were the refuse of this refuse—themurderers, bandits, and villains, whom neither chain nor lash could tame. Theywere regarded as socially dead, and shipped to Hell's Gates, or Maria Island.Hells Gates was the most dreaded of all these houses of bondage. The disciplineat the place was so severe, and the life so terrible, that prisoners would riskall to escape from it. In one year, of eighty-five deaths there, only thirtywere from natural causes; of the remaining dead, twenty-seven were drowned,eight killed accidentally, three shot by the soldiers, and twelve murdered bytheir comrades. In 1822, one hundred and sixty-nine men out of one hundred andeighty-two were punished to the extent of two thousand lashes. During the tenyears of its existence, one hundred and twelve men escaped, out of whomsixty-two only were found-dead. The prisoners killed themselves to avoid livingany longer, and if so fortunate as to penetrate the desert of scrub, heath, andswamp, which lay between their prison and the settled districts, preferreddeath to recapture. Successfully to transport the remnant of this desperateband of doubly-convicted felons to Arthur's new prison, was the mission ofMaurice Frere.

He was sitting by the empty fire-place, with one leg carelessly thrown overthe other, entertaining the company with his usual indifferent air. The sixyears that had passed since his departure from England had given him a sturdierframe and a fuller face. His hair was coarser, his face redder, and his eyemore hard, but in demeanour he was little changed. Sobered he might be, and hisvoice had acquired that decisive, insured tone which a voice exercised only inaccents of command invariably acquires, but his bad qualities were as prominentas ever. His five years' residence at Maria Island had increased that brutalityof thought, and overbearing confidence in his own importance, for which he hadbeen always remarkable, but it had also given him an assured air of authority,which covered the more unpleasant features of his character. He was detested bythe prisoners—as he said, "it was a word and a blow with him"—but,among his superiors, he passed for an officer, honest and painstaking, thoughsomewhat bluff and severe.

"Well, Mrs. Vickers," he said, as he took a cup of tea from the hands ofthat lady, "I suppose you won't be sorry to get away from this place, eh?Trouble you for the toast, Vickers!"

"No indeed," says poor Mrs. Vickers, with the old girlishness shadowed bysix years; "I shall be only too glad. A dreadful place! John's duties, however,are imperative. But the wind! My dear Mr. Frere, you've no idea of it; I wantedto send Sylvia to Hobart Town, but John would not let her go."

"By the way, how is Miss Sylvia?" asked Frere, with the patronising airwhich men of his stamp adopt when they speak of children.

"Not very well, I'm sorry to say," returned Vickers. "You see, it's lonelyfor her here. There are no children of her own age, with the exception of thepilot's little girl, and she cannot associate with her. But I did not like toleave her behind, and endeavoured to teach her myself."

"Hum! There was a-ha-governess, or something, was there not?" said Frere,staring into his tea-cup. "That maid, you know—what was her name?"

"Miss Purfoy," said Mrs. Vickers, a little gravely. "Yes, poor thing! A sadstory, Mr. Frere."

Frere's eye twinkled.

"Indeed! I left, you know, shortly after the trial of the mutineers, andnever heard the full particulars." He spoke carelessly, but he awaited thereply with keen curiosity.

"A sad story!" repeated Mrs. Vickers. "She was the wife of that wretchedman, Rex, and came out as my maid in order to be near him. She would never tellme her history, poor thing, though all through the dreadful accusations made bythat horrid doctor—I always disliked that man—I begged her almoston my knees. You know how she nursed Sylvia and poor John. Really a mostsuperior creature. I think she must have been a governess."

Mr. Frere raised his eyebrows abruptly, as though he would say, Governess!Of course. Happy suggestion. Wonder it never occurred to me before. "However,her conduct was most exemplary—really most exemplary—and during thesix months we were in Hobart Town she taught little Sylvia a great deal. Ofcourse she could not help her wretched husband, you know. Could she?"

"Certainly not!" said Frere heartily. "I heard something about him too. Gotinto some scrape, did he not? Half a cup, please."

"Miss Purfoy, or Mrs. Rex, as she really was, though I don't suppose Rex isher real name either—sugar and milk, I think you said—came into alittle legacy from an old aunt in England." Mr. Frere gave a little bluff nod,meaning thereby, Old aunt! Exactly. Just what might have been expected. "Andleft my service. She took a little cottage on the New Town road, and Rex wasassigned to her as her servant."

"I see. The old dodge!" says Frere, flushing a little. "Well?"

"Well, the wretched man tried to escape, and she helped him. He was to getto Launceston, and so on board a vessel to Sydney; but they took the unhappycreature, and he was sent down here. She was only fined, but it ruinedher."

"Ruined her?"

"Well, you see, only a few people knew of her relationship to Rex, and shewas rather respected. Of course, when it became known, what with that dreadfultrial and the horrible assertions of Dr. Pine—you will not believe me, Iknow, there was something about that man I never liked—she was quite leftalone. She wanted me to bring her down here to teach Sylvia; but John thoughtthat it was only to be near her husband, and wouldn't allow it."

"Of course it was," said Vickers, rising. "Frere, if you'd like to smoke,we'll go on the verandah.—She will never be satisfied until she gets thatscoundrel free."

"He's a bad lot, then?" says Frere, opening the glass window, and leadingthe way to the sandy garden. "You will excuse my roughness, Mrs. Vickers, but Ihave become quite a slave to my pipe. Ha, ha, it's wife and child to me!"

"Oh, a very bad lot," returned Vickers; "quiet and silent, but ready for anyvillainy. I count him one of the worst men we have. With the exception of oneor two more, I think he is the worst."

"Why don't you flog 'em?" says Frere, lighting his pipe in the gloom. "ByGeorge, sir, I cut the hides off my fellows if they show any nonsense!"

"Well," says Vickers, "I don't care about too much cat myself. Barton, whowas here before me, flogged tremendously, but I don't think it did any good.They tried to kill him several times. You remember those twelve fellows whowere hung? No! Ah, of course, you were away."

"What do you do with 'em?"

"Oh, flog the worst, you know; but I don't flog more than a man a week, as arule, and never more than fifty lashes. They're getting quieter now. Then weiron, and dumb-cells, and maroon them."

"Do what?"

"Give them solitary confinement on Grummet Island. When a man gets very bad,we clap him into a boat with a week's provisions and pull him over to Grummet.There are cells cut in the rock, you see, and the fellow pulls up hiscommissariat after him, and lives there by himself for a month or so. It tamesthem wonderfully."

"Does it?" said Frere. "By Jove! it's a capital notion. I wish I had a placeof that sort at Maria."

"I've a fellow there now," says Vickers; "Dawes. You remember him, ofcourse—the ringleader of the mutiny in the Malabar. A dreadful ruffian.He was most violent the first year I was here. Barton used to flog a good deal,and Dawes had a childish dread of the cat. When I came in—when wasit?—in '29, he'd made a sort of petition to be sent back to thesettlement. Said that he was innocent of the mutiny, and that the accusationagainst him was false."

"The old dodge," said Frere again. "A match? Thanks."

"Of course, I couldn't let him go; but I took him out of the chain-gang, andput him on the Osprey. You saw her in the dock as you came in. He worked forsome time very well, and then tried to bolt again."

"The old trick. Ha! ha! don't I know it?" says Mr. Frere, emitting a streakof smoke in the air, expressive of preternatural wisdom.

"Well, we caught him, and gave him fifty. Then he was sent to thechain-gang, cutting timber. Then we put him into the boats, but he quarrelledwith the coxswain, and then we took him back to the timber-rafts. About sixweeks ago he made another attempt—together with Gabbett, the man whonearly killed you—but his leg was chafed with the irons, and we took him.Gabbett and three more, however, got away."

"Haven't you found 'em?" asked Frere, puffing at his pipe.

"No. But they'll come to the same fate as the rest," said Vickers, with asort of dismal pride. "No man ever escaped from Macquarie Harbour."

Frere laughed. "By the Lord!" said he, "it will be rather hard for 'em ifthey don't come back before the end of the month, eh?"

"Oh," said Vickers, "they're sure to come—if they can come at all; butonce lost in the scrub, a man hasn't much chance for his life."

"When do you think you will be ready to move?" asked Frere.

"As soon as you wish. I don't want to stop a moment longer than I can help.It is a terrible life, this."

"Do you think so?" asked his companion, in unaffected surprise. "I like it.It's dull, certainly. When I first went to Maria I was dreadfully bored, butone soon gets used to it. There is a sort of satisfaction to me, by George, inkeeping the scoundrels in order. I like to see the fellows' eyes glint at youas you walk past 'em. Gad, they'd tear me to pieces, if they dared, some of'em!" and he laughed grimly, as though the hate he inspired was a thing to beproud of.

"How shall we go?" asked Vickers. "Have you got any instructions?"

"No," says Frere; "it's all left to you. Get 'em up the best way you can,Arthur said, and pack 'em off to the new peninsula. He thinks you too far offhere, by George! He wants to have you within hail."

"It's dangerous taking so many at once," suggested Vickers.

"Not a bit. Batten 'em down and keep the sentries awake, and they won't doany harm."

"But Mrs. Vickers and the child?"

"I've thought of that. You take the Ladybird with the prisoners, and leaveme to bring up Mrs. Vickers in the Osprey."

"We might do that. Indeed, it's the best way, I think. I don't like thenotion of having Sylvia among those wretches, and yet I don't like to leaveher."

"Well," says Frere, confident of his own ability to accomplish anything hemight undertake, "I'll take the Ladybird, and you the Osprey. Bring up Mrs.Vickers yourself."

"No, no," said Vickers, with a touch of his old pomposity, "that won't do.By the King's Regulations—"

"All right," interjected Frere, "you needn't quote 'em. 'The officercommanding is obliged to place himself in charge'—all right, my dear sir.I've no objection in life."

"It was Sylvia that I was thinking of," said Vickers.

"Well, then," cries the other, as the door of the room inside opened, and alittle white figure came through into the broad verandah. "Here she is! Ask heryourself. Well, Miss Sylvia, will you come and shake hands with an oldfriend?"

The bright-haired baby of the Malabar had become a bright-haired child ofsome eleven years old, and as she stood in her simple white dress in the glowof the lamplight, even the unaesthetic mind of Mr. Frere was struck by herextreme beauty. Her bright blue eyes were as bright and as blue as ever. Herlittle figure was as upright and as supple as a willow rod; and her innocent,delicate face was framed in a nimbus of that fine golden hair—dry andelectrical, each separate thread shining with a lustre of its own—withwhich the dreaming painters of the middle ages endowed and glorified theirangels.

"Come and give me a kiss, Miss Sylvia!" cries Frere. "You haven't forgottenme, have you?"

But the child, resting one hand on her father's knee, surveyed Mr. Frerefrom head to foot with the charming impertinence of childhood, and then,shaking her head, inquired: "Who is he, papa?"

"Mr. Frere, darling. Don't you remember Mr. Frere, who used to play ballwith you on board the ship, and who was so kind to you when you were gettingwell? For shame, Sylvia!"

There was in the chiding accents such an undertone of tenderness, that thereproof fell harmless.

"I remember you," said Sylvia, tossing her head; "but you were nicer thenthan you are now. I don't like you at all."

"You don't remember me," said Frere, a little disconcerted, and affecting tobe intensely at his ease. "I am sure you don't. What is my name?"

"Lieutenant Frere. You knocked down a prisoner who picked up my ball. Idon't like you."

"You're a forward young lady, upon my word!" said Frere, with a great laugh."Ha! ha! so I did, begad, I recollect now. What a memory you've got!"

"He's here now, isn't he, papa?" went on Sylvia, regardless of interruption."Rufus Dawes is his name, and he's always in trouble. Poor fellow, I'm sorryfor him. Danny says he's queer in his mind."

"And who's Danny?" asked Frere, with another laugh.

"The cook," replied Vickers. "An old man I took out of hospital. Sylvia, youtalk too much with the prisoners. I have forbidden you once or twicebefore."

"But Danny is not a prisoner, papa—he's a cook," says Sylvia, nothingabashed, "and he's a clever man. He told me all about London, where the LordMayor rides in a glass coach, and all the work is done by free men. He says younever hear chains there. I should like to see London, papa!"

"So would Mr. Danny, I have no doubt," said Frere.

"No—he didn't say that. But he wants to see his old mother, he says.Fancy Danny's mother! What an ugly old woman she must be! He says he'll see herin Heaven. Will he, papa?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Papa!"

"Yes."

"Will Danny wear his yellow jacket in Heaven, or go as a free man?"

Frere burst into a roar at this.

"You're an impertinent fellow, sir!" cried Sylvia, her bright eyes flashing."How dare you laugh at me? If I was papa, I'd give you half an hour at thetriangles. Oh, you impertinent man!" and, crimson with rage, the spoilt littlebeauty ran out of the room. Vickers looked grave, but Frere was constrained toget up to laugh at his ease.

"Good! 'Pon honour, that's good! The little vixen!—Half an hour at thetriangles! Ha-ha! ha, ha, ha!"

"She is a strange child," said Vickers, "and talks strangely for her age;but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see; and hereducation has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place and itsassociations—what can you expect from a child bred in a convictsettlement?"

"My dear sir," says the other, "she's delightful! Her innocence of the worldis amazing!"

"She must have three or four years at a good finishing school at Sydney.Please God, I will give them to her when we go back—or send her toEngland if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polishing sadly,I'm afraid."

Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted.

"What is it, Troke?"

"Prisoner given himself up, sir."

"Which of them?"

"Gabbett. He came back to-night."

"Alone?" "Yes, sir. The rest have died—he says."

"What's that?" asked Frere, suddenly interested.

"The bolter I was telling you about—Gabbett, your old friend. He'sreturned."

"How long has he been out?"

"Nigh six weeks, sir," said the constable, touching his cap.

"Gad, he's had a narrow squeak for it, I'll be bound. I should like to seehim."

"He's down at the sheds," said the ready Troke—"a 'good conduct'burglar. You can see him at once, gentlemen, if you like."

"What do you say, Vickers?"

"Oh, by all means."

CHAPTER IV. THE BOLTER.

It was not far to the sheds, and after a few minutes' walk through thewooden palisades they reached a long stone building, two storeys high, fromwhich issued a horrible growling, pierced with shrilly screamed songs. At thesound of the musket butts clashing on the pine-wood flagging, the noisesceased, and a silence more sinister than sound fell on the place.

Passing between two rows of warders, the two officers reached a sort ofante-room to the gaol, containing a pine-log stretcher, on which a mass ofsomething was lying. On a roughly-made stool, by the side of this stretcher,sat a man, in the grey dress (worn as a contrast to the yellow livery) of "goodconduct" prisoners. This man held between his knees a basin containing gruel,and was apparently endeavouring to feed the mass on the pine logs.

"Won't he eat, Steve?" asked Vickers.

And at the sound of the Commandant's voice, Steve arose.

"Dunno what's wrong wi' 'un, sir," he said, jerking up a finger to hisforehead. "He seems jest muggy-pated. I can't do nothin' wi' 'un."

"Gabbett!"

The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superiorofficers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture.

Gabbett—for it was he—passed one great hand over his face, andleaning exactly in the position in which Troke placed him, scowled, bewildered,at his visitors.

"Well, Gabbett," says Vickers, "you've come back again, you see. When willyou learn sense, eh? Where are your mates?"

The giant did not reply.

"Do you hear me? Where are your mates?"

"Where are your mates?" repeated Troke.

"Dead," says Gabbett.

"All three of them?"

"Ay."

"And how did you get back?"

Gabbett, in eloquent silence, held out a bleeding foot.

"We found him on the point, sir," said Troke, jauntily explaining, "andbrought him across in the boat. He had a basin of gruel, but he didn't seemhungry."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you eat your gruel?"

Gabbett curled his great lips.

"I have eaten it. Ain't yer got nuffin' better nor that to flog a man on?Ugh! yer a mean lot! Wot's it to be this time, Major? Fifty?"

And laughing, he rolled down again on the logs.

"A nice specimen!" said Vickers, with a hopeless smile. "What can one dowith such a fellow?"

"I'd flog his soul out of his body," said Frere, "if he spoke to me likethat!"

Troke and the others, hearing the statement, conceived an instant respectfor the new-comer. He looked as if he would keep his word.

The giant raised his great head and looked at the speaker, but did notrecognize him. He saw only a strange face—a visitor perhaps. "You mayflog, and welcome, master," said he, "if you'll give me a fig o' tibbacky."Frere laughed. The brutal indifference of the rejoinder suited his humour, and,with a glance at Vickers, he took a small piece of cavendish from the pocket ofhis pea-jacket, and gave it to the recaptured convict. Gabbett snatched it as acur snatches at a bone, and thrust it whole into his mouth.

"How many mates had he?" asked Maurice, watching the champing jaws as onelooks at a strange animal, and asking the question as though a "mate" wassomething a convict was born with—like a mole, for instance.

"Three, sir."

"Three, eh? Well, give him thirty lashes, Vickers."

"And if I ha' had three more," growled Gabbett, mumbling at his tobacco,"you wouldn't ha' had the chance."

"What does he say?"

But Troke had not heard, and the "good-conduct" man, shrinking as it seemed,slightly from the prisoner, said he had not heard either. The wretch himself,munching hard at his tobacco, relapsed into his restless silence, and was asthough he had never spoken.

As he sat there gloomily chewing, he was a spectacle to shudder at. Not somuch on account of his natural hideousness, increased a thousand-fold by thetattered and filthy rags which barely covered him. Not so much on account ofhis unshaven jaws, his hare-lip, his torn and bleeding feet, his haggardcheeks, and his huge, wasted frame. Not only because, looking at the animal, ashe crouched, with one foot curled round the other, and one hairy arm pendantbetween his knees, he was so horribly unhuman, that one shuddered to think thattender women and fair children must, of necessity, confess to fellowship ofkind with such a monster. But also because, in his slavering mouth, his slowlygrinding jaws, his restless fingers, and his bloodshot, wandering eyes, therelurked a hint of some terror more awful than the terror of starvation—amemory of a tragedy played out in the gloomy depths of that forest which hadvomited him forth again; and the shadow of this unknown horror, clinging tohim, repelled and disgusted, as though he bore about with him the reek of theshambles.

"Come," said Vickers, "Let us go back. I shall have to flog him again, Isuppose. Oh, this place! No wonder they call it 'Hell's Gates'."

"You are too soft-hearted, my dear sir," said Frere, half-way up thepalisaded path. "We must treat brutes like brutes."

Major Vickers, inured as he was to such sentiments, sighed. "It is not forme to find fault with the system," he said, hesitating, in his reverence for"discipline", to utter all the thought; "but I have sometimes wondered ifkindness would not succeed better than the chain and the cat."

"Your old ideas!" laughed his companion. "Remember, they nearly cost us ourlives on the Malabar. No, no. I've seen something of convicts—though, tobe sure, my fellows were not so bad as yours—and there's only one way.Keep 'em down, sir. Make 'em feel what they are. They're there to work, sir. Ifthey won't work, flog 'em until they will. If they work well—why a tasteof the cat now and then keeps 'em in mind of what they may expect if they getlazy." They had reached the verandah now. The rising moon shone softly on thebay beneath them, and touched with her white light the summit of the GrummetRock.

"That is the general opinion, I know," returned Vickers. "But consider thelife they lead. Good God!" he added, with sudden vehemence, as Frere paused tolook at the bay. "I'm not a cruel man, and never, I believe, inflicted anunmerited punishment, but since I have been here ten prisoners have drownedthemselves from yonder rock, rather than live on in their misery. Only threeweeks ago, two men, with a wood-cutting party in the hills, having had somewords with the overseer, shook hands with the gang, and then, hand in hand,flung themselves over the cliff. It's horrible to think of!"

"They shouldn't get sent here," said practical Frere. "They knew what theyhad to expect. Serve 'em right."

"But imagine an innocent man condemned to this place!"

"I can't," said Frere, with a laugh. "Innocent man be hanged! They're allinnocent, if you'd believe their own stories. Hallo! what's that red lightthere?"

"Dawes's fire, on Grummet Rock," says Vickers, going in; "the man I told youabout. Come in and have some brandy-and-water, and we'll shut the door inplace."

CHAPTER V. SYLVIA.

"Well," said Frere, as they went in, "you'll be out of it soon. You can getall ready to start by the end of the month, and I'll bring on Mrs. Vickersafterwards."

"What is that you say about me?" asked the sprightly Mrs. Vickers fromwithin. "You wicked men, leaving me alone all this time!"

"Mr. Frere has kindly offered to bring you and Sylvia after us in theOsprey. I shall, of course, have to take the Ladybird."

"You are most kind, Mr. Frere, really you are," says Mrs. Vickers, arecollection of her flirtation with a certain young lieutenant, six yearsbefore, tinging her cheeks. "It is really most considerate of you. Won't it benice, Sylvia, to go with Mr. Frere and mamma to Hobart Town?"

"Mr. Frere," says Sylvia, coming from out a corner of the room, "I am verysorry for what I said just now. Will you forgive me?"

She asked the question in such a prim, old-fashioned way, standing in frontof him, with her golden locks streaming over her shoulders, and her handsclasped on her black silk apron (Julia Vickers had her own notions aboutdressing her daughter), that Frere was again inclined to laugh.

"Of course I'll forgive you, my dear," he said. "You didn't mean it, Iknow."

"Oh, but I did mean it, and that's why I'm sorry. I am a very naughty girlsometimes, though you wouldn't think so" (this with a charming consciousness ofher own beauty), "especially with Roman history. I don't think the Romans werehalf as brave as the Carthaginians; do you, Mr. Frere?"

Maurice, somewhat staggered by this question, could only ask, "Why not?"

"Well, I don't like them half so well myself," says Sylvia, with femininedisdain of reasons. "They always had so many soldiers, though the others wereso cruel when they conquered."

"Were they?" says Frere.

"Were they! Goodness gracious, yes! Didn't they cut poor Regulus's eyelidsoff, and roll him down hill in a barrel full of nails? What do you call that, Ishould like to know?" and Mr. Frere, shaking his red head with vast assumptionof classical learning, could not but concede that that was not kind on the partof the Carthaginians.

"You are a great scholar, Miss Sylvia," he remarked, with a consciousnessthat this self-possessed girl was rapidly taking him out of his depth.

"Are you fond of reading?"

"Very."

"And what books do you read?"

"Oh, lots! 'Paul and Virginia', and 'Paradise Lost', and 'Shakespeare'sPlays', and 'Robinson Crusoe', and 'Blair's Sermons', and 'The TasmanianAlmanack', and 'The Book of Beauty', and 'Tom Jones'."

"A somewhat miscellaneous collection, I fear," said Mrs. Vickers, with asickly smile—she, like Gallio, cared for none of these things—"butour little library is necessarily limited, and I am not a great reader. John,my dear, Mr. Frere would like another glass of brandy-and-water. Oh, don'tapologize; I am a soldier's wife, you know. Sylvia, my love, say good-night toMr. Frere, and retire."

"Good-night, Miss Sylvia. Will you give me a kiss?"

"No!"

"Sylvia, don't be rude!"

"I'm not rude," cries Sylvia, indignant at the way in which her literaryconfidence had been received. "He's rude! I won't kiss you. Kiss you indeed! Mygoodness gracious!"

"Won't you, you little beauty?" cried Frere, suddenly leaning forward, andputting his arm round the child. "Then I must kiss you!"

To his astonishment, Sylvia, finding herself thus seized and kissed despiteherself, flushed scarlet, and, lifting up her tiny fist, struck him on thecheek with all her force.

The blow was so sudden, and the momentary pain so sharp, that Maurice nearlyslipped into his native coarseness, and rapped out an oath.

"My dear Sylvia!" cried Vickers, in tones of grave reproof.

But Frere laughed, caught both the child's hands in one of his own, andkissed her again and again, despite her struggles. "There!" he said, with asort of triumph in his tone. "You got nothing by that, you see."

Vickers rose, with annoyance visible on his face, to draw the child away;and as he did so, she, gasping for breath, and sobbing with rage, wrenched herwrist free, and in a storm of childish passion struck her tormentor again andagain. "Man!" she cried, with flaming eyes, "Let me go! I hate you! I hate you!I hate you!"

"I am very sorry for this, Frere," said Vickers, when the door was closedagain. "I hope she did not hurt you."

"Not she! I like her spirit. Ha, ha! That's the way with women all the worldover. Nothing like showing them that they've got a master."

Vickers hastened to turn the conversation, and, amid recollections of olddays, and speculations as to future prospects, the little incident wasforgotten. But when, an hour later, Mr. Frere traversed the passage that led tohis bedroom, he found himself confronted by a little figure wrapped in a shawl.It was his childish enemy.

"I've waited for you, Mr. Frere," said she, "to beg pardon. I ought not tohave struck you; I am a wicked girl. Don't say no, because I am; and if I don'tgrow better I shall never go to Heaven."

Thus addressing him, the child produced a piece of paper, folded like aletter, from beneath the shawl, and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked. "Go back to bed, my dear; you'll catch cold."

"It's a written apology; and I sha'n't catch cold, because I've got mystockings on. If you don't accept it," she added, with an arching of the brows,"it is not my fault. I have struck you, but I apologize. Being a woman, I can'toffer you satisfaction in the usual way."

Mr. Frere stifled the impulse to laugh, and made his courteous adversary alow bow.

"I accept your apology, Miss Sylvia," said he.

"Then," returned Miss Sylvia, in a lofty manner, "there is nothing more tobe said, and I have the honour to bid you good-night, sir."

The little maiden drew her shawl close around her with immense dignity, andmarched down the passage as calmly as though she had been Amadis of Gaulhimself.

Frere, gaining his room choking with laughter, opened the folded paper bythe light of the tallow candle, and read, in a quaint, childishhand:—

SIR,—I have struck you. I apologize in writing. Your humble servant tocommand, SYLVIA VICKERS.

"I wonder what book she took that out of?" he said. "'Pon my word she mustbe a little cracked. 'Gad, it's a queer life for a child in this place, and nomistake."

CHAPTER VI. A LEAP IN THE DARK.

Two or three mornings after the arrival of the Ladybird, the solitaryprisoner of the Grummet Rock noticed mysterious movements along the shore ofthe island settlement. The prison boats, which had put off every morning atsunrise to the foot of the timbered ranges on the other side of the harbour,had not appeared for some days. The building of a pier, or breakwater, runningfrom the western point of the settlement, was discontinued; and all handsappeared to be occupied with the newly-built Osprey, which was lying on theslips. Parties of soldiers also daily left the Ladybird, and assisted at themysterious work in progress. Rufus Dawes, walking his little round each day, invain wondered what this unusual commotion portended. Unfortunately, no one cameto enlighten his ignorance.

A fortnight after this, about the 15th of December, he observed anothercurious fact. All the boats on the island put off one morning to the oppositeside of the harbour, and in the course of the day a great smoke arose along theside of the hills. The next day the same was repeated; and on the fourth daythe boats returned, towing behind them a huge raft. This raft, made fast to theside of the Ladybird, proved to be composed of planks, beams, and joists, allof which were duly hoisted up, and stowed in the hold of the brig.

This set Rufus Dawes thinking. Could it possibly be that the timber-cuttingwas to be abandoned, and that the Government had hit upon some other method ofutilizing its convict labour? He had hewn timber and built boats, and tannedhides and made shoes. Was it possible that some new trade was to be initiated?Before he had settled this point to his satisfaction, he was startled byanother boat expedition. Three boats' crews went down the bay, and returned,after a day's absence, with an addition to their number in the shape of fourstrangers and a quantity of stores and farming implements. Rufus Dawes,catching sight of these last, came to the conclusion that the boats had been toPhilip's Island, where the "garden" was established, and had taken off thegardeners and garden produce. Rufus Dawes decided that the Ladybird had broughta new commandant—his sight, trained by his half-savage life, had alreadydistinguished Mr. Maurice Frere—and that these mysteries were"improvements" under the new rule. When he arrived at this point of reasoning,another conjecture, assuming his first to have been correct, followed as anatural consequence. Lieutenant Frere would be a more severe commandant thanMajor Vickers. Now, severity had already reached its height, so far as he wasconcerned; so the unhappy man took a final resolution—he would killhimself. Before we exclaim against the sin of such a determination, let usendeavour to set before us what the sinner had suffered during the past sixyears.

We have already a notion of what life on a convict ship means; and we haveseen through what a furnace Rufus Dawes had passed before he set foot on thebarren shore of Hell's Gates. But to appreciate in its intensity the agony hesuffered since that time, we must multiply the infamy of the 'tween decks ofthe Malabar a hundred fold. In that prison was at least some ray of light. Allwere not abominable; all were not utterly lost to shame and manhood. Stiflingthough the prison, infamous the companionship, terrible the memory of pasthappiness—there was yet ignorance of the future, there was yet hope. Butat Macquarie Harbour was poured out the very dregs of this cup of desolation.The worst had come, and the worst must for ever remain. The pit of torment wasso deep that one could not even see Heaven. There was no hope there so long aslife remained. Death alone kept the keys of that island prison.

Is it possible to imagine, even for a moment, what an innocent man, giftedwith ambition, endowed with power to love and to respect, must have sufferedduring one week of such punishment? We ordinary men, leading ordinarylives—walking, riding, laughing, marrying and giving inmarriage—can form no notion of such misery as this. Some dim ideas we mayhave about the sweetness of liberty and the loathing that evil companyinspires; but that is all. We know that were we chained and degraded, fed likedogs, employed as beasts of burden, driven to our daily toil with threats andblows, and herded with wretches among whom all that savours of decency andmanliness is held in an open scorn, we should die, perhaps, or go mad. But wedo not know, and can never know, how unutterably loathsome life must becomewhen shared with such beings as those who dragged the tree-trunks to the banksof the Gordon, and toiled, blaspheming, in their irons, on the dismal sandpitof Sarah Island. No human creature could describe to what depth of personalabasem*nt and self-loathing one week of such a life would plunge him. Even ifhe had the power to write, he dared not. As one whom in a desert, seeking for aface, should come to a pool of blood, and seeing his own reflection,fly—so would such a one hasten from the contemplation of his owndegrading agony. Imagine such torment endured for six years!

Ignorant that the sights and sounds about him were symptoms of the finalabandonment of the settlement, and that the Ladybird was sent down to bringaway the prisoners, Rufus Dawes decided upon getting rid of that burden of lifewhich pressed upon him so heavily. For six years he had hewn wood and drawnwater; for six years he had hoped against hope; for six years he had lived inthe valley of the shadow of Death. He dared not recapitulate to himself what hehad suffered. Indeed, his senses were deadened and dulled by torture. He caredto remember only one thing—that he was a Prisoner for Life. In vain hadbeen his first dream of freedom. He had done his best, by good conduct, to winrelease; but the villainy of Vetch and Rex had deprived him of the fruit of hislabour. Instead of gaining credit by his exposure of the plot on board theMalabar, he was himself deemed guilty, and condemned, despite his asseverationsof innocence. The knowledge of his "treachery"—for so it was deemed amonghis associates—while it gained for him no credit with the authorities,procured for him the detestation and ill-will of the monsters among whom hefound himself. On his arrival at Hell's Gates he was a marked man—aPariah among those beings who were Pariahs to all the world beside. Thrice hislife was attempted; but he was not then quite tired of living, and he defendedit. This defence was construed by an overseer into a brawl, and the irons fromwhich he had been relieved were replaced. His strength—brute attributethat alone could avail him—made him respected after this, and he was leftat peace. At first this treatment was congenial to his temperament; but by andby it became annoying, then painful, then almost unendurable. Tugging at hisoar, digging up to his waist in slime, or bending beneath his burden of pinewood, he looked greedily for some excuse to be addressed. He would take doubleweight when forming part of the human caterpillar along whose back lay a pinetree, for a word of fellowship. He would work double tides to gain a kindlysentence from a comrade. In his utter desolation he agonized for the friendshipof robbers and murderers. Then the reaction came, and he hated the very soundof their voices. He never spoke, and refused to answer when spoken to. He wouldeven take his scanty supper alone, did his chain so permit him. He gained thereputation of a sullen, dangerous, half-crazy ruffian. Captain Barton, thesuperintendent, took pity on him, and made him his gardener. He accepted thepity for a week or so, and then Barton, coming down one morning, found the fewshrubs pulled up by the roots, the flower-beds trampled into barrenness, andhis gardener sitting on the ground among the fragments of his gardening tools.For this act of wanton mischief he was flogged. At the triangles his behaviourwas considered curious. He wept and prayed to be released, fell on his knees toBarton, and implored pardon. Barton would not listen, and at the first blow theprisoner was silent. From that time he became more sullen than ever, only attimes he was observed, when alone, to fling himself on the ground and cry likea child. It was generally thought that his brain was affected.

When Vickers came, Dawes sought an interview, and begged to be sent back toHobart Town. This was refused, of course, but he was put to work on the Osprey.After working there for some time, and being released from his irons, heconcealed himself on the slip, and in the evening swam across the harbour. Hewas pursued, retaken, and flogged. Then he ran the dismal round of punishment.He burnt lime, dragged timber, and tugged at the oar. The heaviest and mostdegrading tasks were always his. Shunned and hated by his companions, feared bythe convict overseers, and regarded with unfriendly eyes by the authorities,Rufus Dawes was at the very bottom of that abyss of woe into which he hadvoluntarily cast himself. Goaded to desperation by his own thoughts, he hadjoined with Gabbett and the unlucky three in their desperate attempt to escape;but, as Vickers stated, he had been captured almost instantly. He was lamed bythe heavy irons he wore, and though Gabbett—with a strange eagerness forwhich after events accounted—insisted that he could make good his flight,the unhappy man fell in the first hundred yards of the terrible race, and wasseized by two volunteers before he could rise again. His capture helped tosecure the brief freedom of his comrades; for Mr. Troke, content with oneprisoner, checked a pursuit which the nature of the ground rendered dangerous,and triumphantly brought Dawes back to the settlement as his peace-offering forthe negligence which had resulted in the loss of the other four. For thismadness the refractory convict had been condemned to the solitude of theGrummet Rock.

In that dismal hermitage, his mind, preying on itself, had becomedisordered. He saw visions and dreamt dreams. He would lie for hoursmotionless, staring at the sun or the sea. He held converse with imaginarybeings. He enacted the scene with his mother over again. He harangued therocks, and called upon the stones about him to witness his innocence and hissacrifice. He was visited by the phantoms of his early friends, and sometimesthought his present life a dream. Whenever he awoke, however, he was commandedby a voice within himself to leap into the surges which washed the walls of hisprison, and to dream these sad dreams no more.

In the midst of this lethargy of body and brain, the unusual occurrencesalong the shore of the settlement roused in him a still fiercer hatred of life.He saw in them something incomprehensible and terrible, and read in themthreats of an increase of misery. Had he known that the Ladybird was preparingfor sea, and that it had been already decided to fetch him from the Rock andiron him with the rest for safe passage to Hobart Town, he might have paused;but he knew nothing, save that the burden of life was insupportable, and thatthe time had come for him to be rid of it.

In the meantime, the settlement was in a fever of excitement. In less thanthree weeks from the announcement made by Vickers, all had been got ready. TheCommandant had finally arranged with Frere as to his course of action. He wouldhimself accompany the Ladybird with the main body. His wife and daughter wereto remain until the sailing of the Osprey, which Mr. Frere—charged withthe task of final destruction—was to bring up as soon as possible. "Iwill leave you a corporal's guard, and ten prisoners as a crew," Vickers said."You can work her easily with that number." To which Frere, smiling at Mrs.Vickers in a self-satisfied way, had replied that he could do with fiveprisoners if necessary, for he knew how to get double work out of the lazydogs.

Among the incidents which took place during the breaking up was one which itis necessary to chronicle. Near Philip's Island, on the north side of theharbour, is situated Coal Head, where a party had been lately at work. Thisparty, hastily withdrawn by Vickers to assist in the business of devastation,had left behind it some tools and timber, and at the eleventh hour a boat'screw was sent to bring away the débris. The tools were duly collected,and the pine logs—worth twenty-five shillings apiece in HobartTown—duly rafted and chained. The timber was secured, and the convicts,towing it after them, pulled for the ship just as the sun sank. In the generalrelaxation of discipline and haste, the raft had not been made with as muchcare as usual, and the strong current against which the boat was labouringassisted the negligence of the convicts. The logs began to loosen, and althoughthe onward motion of the boat kept the chain taut, when the rowers slackenedtheir exertions the mass parted, and Mr. Troke, hooking himself on to the sideof the Ladybird, saw a huge log slip out from its fellows and disappear intothe darkness. Gazing after it with an indignant and disgusted stare, as thoughit had been a refractory prisoner who merited two days' "solitary", he thoughthe heard a cry from the direction in which it had been borne. He would havepaused to listen, but all his attention was needed to save the timber, and toprevent the boat from being swamped by the struggling mass at her stern.

The cry had proceeded from Rufus Dawes. From his solitary rock he hadwatched the boat pass him and make for the Ladybird in the channel, and he haddecided—with that curious childishness into which the mind relapses onsuch supreme occasions—that the moment when the gathering gloom swallowedher up, should be the moment when he would plunge into the surge below him. Theheavily-labouring boat grew dimmer and dimmer, as each tug of the oars took herfarther from him. Presently, only the figure of Mr. Troke in the stern sheetswas visible; then that also disappeared, and as the nose of the timber raftrose on the swell of the next wave, Rufus Dawes flung himself into the sea.

He was heavily ironed, and he sank like a stone. He had resolved not toattempt to swim, and for the first moment kept his arms raised above his head,in order to sink the quicker. But, as the short, sharp agony of suffocationcaught him, and the shock of the icy water dispelled the mental intoxicationunder which he was labouring, he desperately struck out, and, despite theweight of his irons, gained the surface for an instant. As he did so, allbewildered, and with the one savage instinct of self-preservation predominantover all other thoughts, he became conscious of a huge black mass surging uponhim out of the darkness. An instant's buffet with the current, an ineffectualattempt to dive beneath it, a horrible sense that the weight at his feet wasdragging him down,—and the huge log, loosened from the raft, was uponhim, crushing him beneath its rough and ragged sides. All thoughts ofself-murder vanished with the presence of actual peril, and uttering thatdespairing cry which had been faintly heard by Troke, he flung up his arms toclutch the monster that was pushing him down to death. The log passedcompletely over him, thrusting him beneath the water, but his hand, scrapingalong the splintered side, came in contact with the loop of hide rope that yethung round the mass, and clutched it with the tenacity of a death grip. Inanother instant he got his head above water, and making good his hold, twistedhimself, by a violent effort, across the log.

For a moment he saw the lights from the stern windows of the anchoredvessels low in the distance, Grummet Rock disappeared on his left, then,exhausted, breathless, and bruised, he closed his eyes, and the drifting logbore him swiftly and silently away into the darkness.

*

At daylight the next morning, Mr. Troke, landing on the prison rock found itdeserted. The prisoner's cap was lying on the edge of the little cliff, but theprisoner himself had disappeared. Pulling back to the Ladybird, the intelligentTroke pondered on the circ*mstance, and in delivering his report to Vickersmentioned the strange cry he had heard the night before. "It's my belief, sir,that he was trying to swim the bay," he said. "He must ha' gone to the bottomanyhow, for he couldn't swim five yards with them irons."

Vickers, busily engaged in getting under weigh, accepted this very naturalsupposition without question. The prisoner had met his death either by his ownact, or by accident. It was either a suicide or an attempt to escape, and theformer conduct of Rufus Dawes rendered the latter explanation a more probableone. In any case, he was dead. As Mr. Troke rightly surmised, no man could swimthe bay in irons; and when the Ladybird, an hour later, passed the GrummetRock, all on board her believed that the corpse of its late occupant was lyingbeneath the waves that seethed at its base.

CHAPTER VII. THE LAST OF MACQUARIE HARBOUR.

Rufus Dawes was believed to be dead by the party on board the Ladybird, andhis strange escape was unknown to those still at Sarah Island. Maurice Frere,if he bestowed a thought upon the refractory prisoner of the Rock, believed himto be safely stowed in the hold of the schooner, and already half-way to HobartTown; while not one of the eighteen persons on board the Osprey suspected thatthe boat which had put off for the marooned man had returned without him.Indeed the party had little leisure for thought; Mr. Frere, eager to prove hisability and energy, was making strenuous exertions to get away, and kept hisunlucky ten so hard at work that within a week from the departure of theLadybird the Osprey was ready for sea. Mrs. Vickers and the child, havingwatched with some excusable regret the process of demolishing their old home,had settled down in their small cabin in the brig, and on the evening of the11th of January, Mr. Bates, the pilot, who acted as master, informed the crewthat Lieutenant Frere had given orders to weigh anchor at daybreak.

At daybreak accordingly the brig set sail, with a light breeze from thesouth-west, and by three o'clock in the afternoon anchored safely outside theGates. Unfortunately the wind shifted to the north-west, which caused a heavyswell on the bar, and prudent Mr. Bates, having consideration for Mrs. Vickersand the child, ran back ten miles into Wellington Bay, and anchored there againat seven o'clock in the morning. The tide was running strongly, and the brigrolled a good deal. Mrs. Vickers kept to her cabin, and sent Sylvia toentertain Lieutenant Frere. Sylvia went, but was not entertaining. She hadconceived for Frere one of those violent antipathies which children sometimesown without reason, and since the memorable night of the apology had beenbarely civil to him. In vain did he pet her and compliment her, she was not tobe flattered into liking him. "I do not like you, sir," she said in her stiltedfashion, "but that need make no difference to you. You occupy yourself withyour prisoners; I can amuse myself without you, thank you." "Oh, all right,"said Frere, "I don't want to interfere"; but he felt a little nettlednevertheless. On this particular evening the young lady relaxed her severity ofdemeanour. Her father away, and her mother sick, the little maiden felt lonely,and as a last resource accepted her mother's commands and went to Frere. He waswalking up and down the deck, smoking.

"Mr. Frere, I am sent to talk to you."

"Are you? All right—go on."

"Oh dear, no. It is the gentleman's place to entertain. Be amusing!"

"Come and sit down then," said Frere, who was in good humour at the successof his arrangements. "What shall we talk about?"

"You stupid man! As if I knew! It is your place to talk. Tell me a fairystory."

"'Jack and the Beanstalk'?" suggested Frere.

"Jack and the grandmother! Nonsense. Make one up out of your head, youknow."

Frere laughed.

"I can't," he said. "I never did such a thing in my life."

"Then why not begin? I shall go away if you don't begin."

Frere rubbed his brows. "Well, have you read—have you read 'RobinsonCrusoe?'"—as if the idea was a brilliant one.

"Of course I have," returned Sylvia, pouting. "Read it?—yes.Everybody's read 'Robinson Crusoe!'"

"Oh, have they? Well, I didn't know; let me see now." And pulling hard athis pipe, he plunged into literary reflection.

Sylvia, sitting beside him, eagerly watching for the happy thought thatnever came, pouted and said, "What a stupid, stupid man you are! I shall be soglad to get back to papa again. He knows all sorts of stories, nearly as manyas old Danny."

"Danny knows some, then?"

"Danny!"—with as much surprise as if she said "Walter Scott!" "Ofcourse he does. I suppose now," putting her head on one side, with an amusingexpression of superiority, "you never heard the story of the 'Banshee'?"

"No, I never did."

"Nor the 'White Horse of the Peppers'?"

"No."

"No, I suppose not. Nor the 'Changeling'? nor the 'Leprechaun'?" "No."

Sylvia got off the skylight on which she had been sitting, and surveyed thesmoking animal beside her with profound contempt.

"Mr. Frere, you are really a most ignorant person. Excuse me if I hurt yourfeelings; I have no wish to do that; but really you are a most ignorantperson—for your age, of course."

Maurice Frere grew a little angry. "You are very impertinent, Sylvia," saidhe.

"Miss Vickers is my name, Lieutenant Frere, and I shall go and talk to Mr.Bates."

Which threat she carried out on the spot; and Mr. Bates, who had filled thedangerous office of pilot, told her about divers and coral reefs, and someadventures of his—a little apocryphal—in the China Seas. Frereresumed his smoking, half angry with himself, and half angry with the provokinglittle fairy. This elfin creature had a fascination for him which he could notaccount for.

However, he saw no more of her that evening, and at breakfast the nextmorning she received him with quaint haughtiness.

"When shall we be ready to sail? Mr. Frere, I'll take some marmalade. Thankyou."

"I don't know, missy," said Bates. "It's very rough on the Bar; me and Mr.Frere was a soundin' of it this marnin', and it ain't safe yet."

"Well," said Sylvia, "I do hope and trust we sha'n't be shipwrecked, andhave to swim miles and miles for our lives."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Frere; "don't be afraid. I'll take care of you."

"Can you swim, Mr. Bates?" asked Sylvia.

"Yes, miss, I can."

"Well, then, you shall take me; I like you. Mr. Frere can take mamma. We'llgo and live on a desert island, Mr. Bates, won't we, and grow cocoa-nuts andbread-fruit, and—what nasty hard biscuits!—I'll be Robinson Crusoe,and you shall be Man Friday. I'd like to live on a desert island, if I was surethere were no savages, and plenty to eat and drink."

"That would be right enough, my dear, but you don't find them sort ofislands every day."

"Then," said Sylvia, with a decided nod, "we won't be ship-wrecked, willwe?"

"I hope not, my dear."

"Put a biscuit in your pocket, Sylvia, in case of accidents," suggestedFrere, with a grin.

"Oh! you know my opinion of you, sir. Don't speak; I don't want anyargument".

"Don't you?—that's right."

"Mr. Frere," said Sylvia, gravely pausing at her mother's cabin door, "if Iwere Richard the Third, do you know what I should do with you?"

"No," says Frere, eating complacently; "what would you do?"

"Why, I'd make you stand at the door of St. Paul's Cathedral in a whitesheet, with a lighted candle in your hand, until you gave up your wickedaggravating ways—you Man!"

The picture of Mr. Frere in a white sheet, with a lighted candle in hishand, at the door of St. Paul's Cathedral, was too much for Mr. Bates'sgravity, and he roared with laughter. "She's a queer child, ain't she, sir? Aborn natural, and a good-natured little soul."

"When shall we be able to get away, Mr. Bates?" asked Frere, whose dignitywas wounded by the mirth of the pilot.

Bates felt the change of tone, and hastened to accommodate himself to hisofficer's humour. "I hopes by evening, sir," said he; "if the tide slackensthen I'll risk it; but it's no use trying it now."

"The men were wanting to go ashore to wash their clothes," said Frere.

"If we are to stop here till evening, you had better let them go afterdinner."

"All right, sir," said Bates.

The afternoon passed off auspiciously. The ten prisoners went ashore andwashed their clothes. Their names were James Barker, James Lesly, John Lyon,Benjamin Riley, William Cheshire, Henry Shiers, William Russen, James Porter,John Fair, and John Rex. This last scoundrel had come on board latest of all.He had behaved himself a little better recently, and during the work attendantupon the departure of the Ladybird, had been conspicuously useful. Hisintelligence and influence among his fellow-prisoners combined to make him asomewhat important personage, and Vickers had allowed him privileges from whichhe had been hitherto debarred. Mr. Frere, however, who superintended theshipment of some stores, seemed to be resolved to take advantage of Rex'sevident willingness to work. He never ceased to hurry and find fault with him.He vowed that he was lazy, sulky, or impertinent. It was "Rex, come here! Dothis! Do that!" As the prisoners declared among themselves, it was evident thatMr. Frere had a "down" on the "Dandy". The day before the Ladybird sailed,Rex—rejoicing in the hope of speedy departure—had suffered himselfto reply to some more than usually galling remark and Mr. Frere had complainedto Vickers. "The fellow's too ready to get away," said he. "Let him stop forthe Osprey, it will be a lesson to him." Vickers assented, and John Rex wasinformed that he was not to sail with the first party. His comrades vowed thatthis order was an act of tyranny; but he himself said nothing. He onlyredoubled his activity, and—despite all his wish to thecontrary—Frere was unable to find fault. He even took credit to himselffor "taming" the convict's spirit, and pointed out Rex—silent andobedient—as a proof of the excellence of severe measures. To theconvicts, however, who knew John Rex better, this silent activity was ominous.He returned with the rest, however, on the evening of the 13th, in apparentlycheerful mood. Indeed Mr. Frere, who, wearied by the delay, had decided to takethe whale-boat in which the prisoners had returned, and catch a few fish beforedinner, observed him laughing with some of the others, and again congratulatedhimself.

The time wore on. Darkness was closing in, and Mr. Bates, walking the deck,kept a look-out for the boat, with the intention of weighing anchor and makingfor the Bar. All was secure. Mrs. Vickers and the child were safely below. Thetwo remaining soldiers (two had gone with Frere) were upon deck, and theprisoners in the forecastle were singing. The wind was fair, and the sea hadgone down. In less than an hour the Osprey would be safely outside theharbour.

CHAPTER VIII. THE POWER OF THE WILDERNESS.

The drifting log that had so strangely served as a means of saving RufusDawes swam with the current that was running out of the bay. For some time theburden that it bore was an insensible one. Exhausted with his desperatestruggle for life, the convict lay along the rough back of this Heaven-sentraft without motion, almost without breath. At length a violent shock awoke himto consciousness, and he perceived that the log had become stranded on a sandypoint, the extremity of which was lost in darkness. Painfully raising himselffrom his uncomfortable posture, he staggered to his feet, and crawling a fewpaces up the beach, flung himself upon the ground and slept.

When morning dawned, he recognized his position. The log had, in passingunder the lee of Philip's Island, been cast upon the southern point of CoalHead; some three hundred yards from him were the mutilated sheds of the coalgang. For some time he lay still, basking in the warm rays of the rising sun,and scarcely caring to move his bruised and shattered limbs. The sensation ofrest was so exquisite, that it overpowered all other considerations, and he didnot even trouble himself to conjecture the reason for the apparent desertion ofthe huts close by him. If there was no one there—well and good. If thecoal party had not gone, he would be discovered in a few moments, and broughtback to his island prison. In his exhaustion and misery, he accepted thealternative and slept again.

As he laid down his aching head, Mr. Troke was reporting his death toVickers, and while he still slept, the Ladybird, on her way out, passed him soclosely that any one on board her might, with a good glass, have espied hisslumbering figure as it lay upon the sand.

When he woke it was past midday, and the sun poured its full rays upon him.His clothes were dry in all places, save the side on which he had been lying,and he rose to his feet refreshed by his long sleep. He scarcely comprehended,as yet, his true position. He had escaped, it was true, but not for long. Hewas versed in the history of escapes, and knew that a man alone on that barrencoast was face to face with starvation or recapture. Glancing up at the sun, hewondered indeed, how it was that he had been free so long. Then the coal shedscaught his eye, and he understood that they were untenanted. This astonishedhim, and he began to tremble with vague apprehension. Entering, he lookedaround, expecting every moment to see some lurking constable, or armed soldier.Suddenly his glance fell upon the food rations which lay in the corner wherethe departing convicts had flung them the night before. At such a moment, thisdiscovery seemed like a direct revelation from Heaven. He would not have beensurprised had they disappeared. Had he lived in another age, he would havelooked round for the angel who had brought them.

By and by, having eaten of this miraculous provender, the poor creaturebegan—reckoning by his convict experience—to understand what hadtaken place. The coal workings were abandoned; the new Commandant had probablyother work for his beasts of burden to execute, and an absconder would be safehere for a few hours at least. But he must not stay. For him there was no rest.If he thought to escape, it behoved him to commence his journey at once. As hecontemplated the meat and bread, something like a ray of hope entered hisgloomy soul. Here was provision for his needs. The food before him representedthe rations of six men. Was it not possible to cross the desert that laybetween him and freedom on such fare? The very supposition made his heart beatfaster. It surely was possible. He must husband his resources; walk much andeat little; spread out the food for one day into the food for three. Here wassix men's food for one day, or one man's food for six days. He would live on athird of this, and he would have rations for eighteen days. Eighteen days! Whatcould he not do in eighteen days? He could walk thirty miles a day—fortymiles a day—that would be six hundred miles and more. Yet stay; he mustnot be too sanguine; the road was difficult; the scrub was in placesimpenetrable. He would have to make détours, and turn upon his tracks,to waste precious time. He would be moderate, and say twenty miles a day.Twenty miles a day was very easy walking. Taking a piece of stick from theground, he made the calculation in the sand. Eighteen days, and twenty miles aday—three hundred and sixty miles. More than enough to take him tofreedom. It could be done! With prudence, it could be done! He must be carefuland abstemious! Abstemious! He had already eaten too much, and he hastilypulled a barely-tasted piece of meat from his mouth, and replaced it with therest. The action which at any other time would have seemed disgusting, was, inthe case of this poor creature, merely pitiable.

Having come to this resolution, the next thing was to disencumber himself ofhis irons. This was more easily done than he expected. He found in the shed aniron gad, and with that and a stone he drove out the rivets. The rings were toostrong to be "ovalled",* or he would have been free long ago. He packed themeat and bread together, and then pushing the gad into his belt—it mightbe needed as a weapon of defence—he set out on his journey.

[* Ovalled—"To oval" is a term in use among convicts, andmeans so to bend the round ring of the ankle fetter that the heel can be drawnup through it.]

His intention was to get round the settlement to the coast, reach thesettled districts, and, by some tale of shipwreck or of wandering, procureassistance. As to what was particularly to be done when he found himself amongfree men, he did not pause to consider. At that point his difficulties seemedto him to end. Let him but traverse the desert that was before him, and hewould trust to his own ingenuity, or the chance of fortune, to avert suspicion.The peril of immediate detection was so imminent that, beside it, all otherfears were dwarfed into insignificance.

Before dawn next morning he had travelled ten miles, and by husbanding hisfood, he succeeded by the night of the fourth day in accomplishing forty more.Footsore and weary, he lay in a thicket of the thorny melaleuca, and felt atlast that he was beyond pursuit. The next day he advanced more slowly. The bushwas unpropitious. Dense scrub and savage jungle impeded his path; barren andstony mountain ranges arose before him. He was lost in gullies, entangled inthickets, bewildered in morasses. The sea that had hitherto gleamed, salt,glittering, and hungry upon his right hand, now shifted to his left. He hadmistaken his course, and he must turn again. For two days did this bewildermentlast, and on the third he came to a mighty cliff that pierced with its bluntpinnacle the clustering bush. He must go over or round this obstacle, and hedecided to go round it. A natural pathway wound about its foot. Here and therebranches were broken, and it seemed to the poor wretch, fainting under theweight of his lessening burden, that his were not the first footsteps which hadtrodden there. The path terminated in a glade, and at the bottom of this gladewas something that fluttered. Rufus Dawes pressed forward, and stumbled over acorpse!

In the terrible stillness of that solitary place he felt suddenly as thougha voice had called to him. All the hideous fantastic tales of murder which hehad read or heard seemed to take visible shape in the person of the loathlycarcase before him, clad in the yellow dress of a convict, and lying flungtogether on the ground as though struck down. Stooping over it, impelled by anirresistible impulse to know the worst, he found the body was mangled. One armwas missing, and the skull had been beaten in by some heavy instrument! Thefirst thought—that this heap of rags and bones was a mute witness to thefolly of his own undertaking, the corpse of some starved absconder—gaveplace to a second more horrible suspicion. He recognized the number imprintedon the coarse cloth as that which had designated the younger of the two men whohad escaped with Gabbett. He was standing on the place where a murder had beencommitted! A murder!—and what else? Thank God the food he carried was notyet exhausted! He turned and fled, looking back fearfully as he went. He couldnot breathe in the shadow of that awful mountain.

Crashing through scrub and brake, torn, bleeding, and wild with terror, hereached a spur on the range, and looked around him. Above him rose the ironhills, below him lay the panorama of the bush. The white cone of theFrenchman's Cap was on his right hand, on his left a succession of rangesseemed to bar further progress. A gleam, as of a lake, streaked the eastward.Gigantic pine trees reared their graceful heads against the opal of the eveningsky, and at their feet the dense scrub through which he had so painfullytoiled, spread without break and without flaw. It seemed as though he couldleap from where he stood upon a solid mass of tree-tops. He raised his eyes,and right against him, like a long dull sword, lay the narrow steel-blue reachof the harbour from which he had escaped. One darker speck moved on the darkwater. It was the Osprey making for the Gates. It seemed that he could throw astone upon her deck. A faint cry of rage escaped him. During the last threedays in the bush he must have retraced his steps, and returned upon his owntrack to the settlement! More than half his allotted time had passed, and hewas not yet thirty miles from his prison. Death had waited to overtake him inthis barbarous wilderness. As a cat allows a mouse to escape her for a while,so had he been permitted to trifle with his fate, and lull himself into a falsesecurity. Escape was hopeless now. He never could escape; and as the unhappyman raised his despairing eyes, he saw that the sun, redly sinking behind alofty pine which topped the opposite hill, shot a ray of crimson light into theglade below him. It was as though a bloody finger pointed at the corpse whichlay there, and Rufus Dawes, shuddering at the dismal omen, averting his face,plunged again into the forest.

For four days he wandered aimlessly through the bush. He had given up allhopes of making the overland journey, and yet, as long as his scanty supply offood held out, he strove to keep away from the settlement. Unable to resist thepangs of hunger, he had increased his daily ration; and though the salted meat,exposed to rain and heat, had begun to turn putrid, he never looked at it buthe was seized with a desire to eat his fill. The coarse lumps of carrion andthe hard rye-loaves were to him delicious morsels fit for the table of anemperor. Once or twice he was constrained to pluck and eat the tops oftea-trees and peppermint shrubs. These had an aromatic taste, and sufficed tostay the cravings of hunger for a while, but they induced a raging thirst,which he slaked at the icy mountain springs. Had it not been for the frequencyof these streams, he must have died in a few days. At last, on the twelfth dayfrom his departure from the Coal Head, he found himself at the foot of MountDirection, at the head of the peninsula which makes the western side of theharbour. His terrible wandering had but led him to make a complete circuit ofthe settlement, and the next night brought him round the shores of BirchesInlet to the landing-place opposite to Sarah Island. His stock of provisionshad been exhausted for two days, and he was savage with hunger. He no longerthought of suicide. His dominant idea was now to get food. He would do as manyothers had done before him—give himself up to be flogged and fed. When hereached the landing-place, however, the guard-house was empty. He looked acrossat the island prison, and saw no sign of life. The settlement was deserted! Theshock of this discovery almost deprived him of reason. For days, that hadseemed centuries, he had kept life in his jaded and lacerated body solely bythe strength of his fierce determination to reach the settlement; and now thathe had reached it, after a journey of unparalleled horror, he found itdeserted. He struck himself to see if he was not dreaming. He refused tobelieve his eyesight. He shouted, screamed, and waved his tattered garments inthe air. Exhausted by these paroxysms, he said to himself, quite calmly, thatthe sun beating on his unprotected head had dazed his brain, and that in a fewminutes he should see well-remembered boats pulling towards him. Then, when noboat came, he argued that he was mistaken in the place; the island yonder wasnot Sarah Island, but some other island like it, and that in a second or so hewould be able to detect the difference. But the inexorable mountains, sohideously familiar for six weary years, made mute reply, and the sea, crawlingat his feet, seemed to grin at him with a thin-lipped, hungry mouth. Yet thefact of the desertion seemed so inexplicable that he could not realize it. Hefelt as might have felt that wanderer in the enchanted mountains, who,returning in the morning to look for his companions, found them turned tostone.

At last the dreadful truth forced itself upon him; he retired a few paces,and then, with a horrible cry of furious despair, stumbled forward towards theedge of the little reef that fringed the shore. Just as he was about to flinghimself for the second time into the dark water, his eyes, sweeping in a lastlong look around the bay, caught sight of a strange appearance on the left hornof the sea beach. A thin, blue streak, uprising from behind the western arm ofthe little inlet, hung in the still air. It was the smoke of a fire!

The dying wretch felt inspired with new hope. God had sent him a direct signfrom Heaven. The tiny column of bluish vapour seemed to him as glorious as thePillar of Fire that led the Israelites. There were yet human beings nearhim!—and turning his face from the hungry sea, he tottered with the lasteffort of his failing strength towards the blessed token of their presence.

CHAPTER IX. THE SEIZURE OF THE "OSPREY"

Frere's fishing expedition had been unsuccessful, and in consequenceprolonged. The obstinacy of his character appeared in the most triflingcirc*mstances, and though the fast deepening shades of an Australian eveningurged him to return, yet he lingered, unwilling to come back empty-handed. Atlast a peremptory signal warned him. It was the sound of a musket fired onboard the brig: Mr. Bates was getting impatient; and with a scowl, Frere drewup his lines, and ordered the two soldiers to pull for the vessel.

The Osprey yet sat motionless on the water, and her bare masts gave no signof making sail. To the soldiers, pulling with their backs to her, the musketshot seemed the most ordinary occurrence in the world. Eager to quit the dismalprison-bay, they had viewed Mr Frere's persistent fishing with disgust, and hadfor the previous half hour longed to hear the signal of recall which had juststartled them. Suddenly, however, they noticed a change of expression in thesullen face of their commander. Frere, sitting in the stern sheets, with hisface to the Osprey, had observed a peculiar appearance on her decks. Thebulwarks were every now and then topped by strange figures, who disappeared assuddenly as they came, and a faint murmur of voices floated across theintervening sea. Presently the report of another musket shot echoed among thehills, and something dark fell from the side of the vessel into the water.Frere, with an imprecation of mingled alarm and indignation, sprang to hisfeet, and shading his eyes with his hand, looked towards the brig. Thesoldiers, resting on their oars, imitated his gesture, and the whale-boat, thusthrown out of trim, rocked from side to side dangerously. A moment's anxiouspause, and then another musket shot, followed by a woman's shrill scream,explained all. The prisoners had seized the brig. "Give way!" cried Frere, palewith rage and apprehension, and the soldiers, realizing at once the full terrorof their position, forced the heavy whale-boat through the water as fast as theone miserable pair of oars could take her.

*

Mr. Bates, affected by the insidious influence of the hour, and lulled intoa sense of false security, had gone below to tell his little playmate that shewould soon be on her way to the Hobart Town of which she had heard so much;and, taking advantage of his absence, the soldier not on guard went to theforecastle to hear the prisoners singing. He found the ten together, in highgood humour, listening to a "shanty" sung by three of their number. The voiceswere melodious enough, and the words of the ditty—chanted by many stoutfellows in many a forecastle before and since—of that character whichpleases the soldier nature. Private Grimes forgot all about the unprotectedstate of the deck, and sat down to listen.

While he listened, absorbed in tender recollections, James Lesly, WilliamCheshire, William Russen, John Fair, and James Barker slipped to the hatchwayand got upon the deck. Barker reached the aft hatchway as the soldier who wason guard turned to complete his walk, and passing his arm round his neck,pulled him down before he could utter a cry. In the confusion of the moment theman loosed his grip of the musket to grapple with his unseen antagonist, andFair, snatching up the weapon, swore to blow out his brains if he raised afinger. Seeing the sentry thus secured, Cheshire, as if in pursuance of apreconcerted plan, leapt down the after hatchway, and passed up the musketsfrom the arm-racks to Lesly and Russen. There were three muskets in addition tothe one taken from the sentry, and Barker, leaving his prisoner in charge ofFair, seized one of them, and ran to the companion ladder. Russen, left unarmedby this manoeuvre, appeared to know his own duty. He came back to theforecastle, and passing behind the listening soldier, touched the singer on theshoulder. This was the appointed signal, and John Rex, suddenly terminating hissong with a laugh, presented his fist in the face of the gaping Grimes. "Nonoise!" he cried. "The brig's ours"; and ere Grimes could reply, he was seizedby Lyon and Riley, and bound securely.

"Come on, lads!" says Rex, "and pass the prisoner down here. We've got herthis time, I'll go bail!" In obedience to this order, the now gagged sentry wasflung down the fore hatchway, and the hatch secured. "Stand on the hatchway,Porter," cries Rex again; "and if those fellows come up, knock 'em down with ahandspoke. Lesly and Russen, forward to the companion ladder! Lyon, keep alook-out for the boat, and if she comes too near, fire!"

As he spoke the report of the first musket rang out. Barker had apparentlyfired up the companion hatchway.

*

When Mr. Bates had gone below, he found Sylvia curled upon the cushions ofthe state-room, reading. "Well, missy!" he said, "we'll soon be on our way topapa."

Sylvia answered by asking a question altogether foreign to the subject. "Mr.Bates," said she, pushing the hair out of her blue eyes, "what's acoracle?"

"A which?" asked Mr. Bates.

"A coracle. C-o-r-a-c-l-e," said she, spelling it slowly. "I want toknow."

The bewildered Bates shook his head. "Never heard of one, missy," said he,bending over the book. "What does it say?"

"'The Ancient Britons,'" said Sylvia, reading gravely, "'were little betterthan Barbarians. They painted their bodies with Woad'—that's blue stuff,you know, Mr. Bates—'and, seated in their light coracles of skinstretched upon slender wooden frames, must have presented a wild and savageappearance.'"

"Hah," said Mr. Bates, when this remarkable passage was read to him, "that'svery mysterious, that is. A corricle, a cory "—a bright light burst uponhim. "A curricle you mean, missy! It's a carriage! I've seen 'em in Hy' Park,with young bloods a-drivin' of 'em."

"What are young bloods?" asked Sylvia, rushing at this "new opening".

"Oh, nobs! Swell coves, don't you know," returned poor Bates, thus againattacked. "Young men o' fortune that is, that's given to doing it grand."

"I see," said Sylvia, waving her little hand graciously. "Noblemen andPrinces and that sort of people. Quite so. But what about coracle?"

"Well," said the humbled Bates, "I think it's a carriage, missy. A sort ofPheayton, as they call it."

Sylvia, hardly satisfied, returned to the book. It was a little mean-lookingvolume—a "Child's History of England"—and after perusing it awhilewith knitted brows, she burst into a childish laugh.

"Why, my dear Mr. Bates!" she cried, waving the History above her head intriumph, "what a pair of geese we are! A carriage! Oh you silly man! It's aboat!"

"Is it?" said Mr. Bates, in admiration of the intelligence of his companion."Who'd ha' thought that now? Why couldn't they call it a boat at once, then,and ha' done with it?" and he was about to laugh also, when, raising his eyes,he saw in the open doorway the figure of James Barker, with a musket in hishand.

"Hallo! What's this? What do you do here, sir?"

"Sorry to disturb yer," says the convict, with a grin, "but you must comealong o' me, Mr. Bates."

Bates, at once comprehending that some terrible misfortune had occurred, didnot lose his presence of mind. One of the cushions of the couch was under hisright hand, and snatching it up he flung it across the little cabin full in theface of the escaped prisoner. The soft mass struck the man with forcesufficient to blind him for an instant. The musket exploded harmlessly in theair, and ere the astonished Barker could recover his footing, Bates had hurledhim out of the cabin, and crying "Mutiny!" locked the cabin door on theinside.

The noise brought out Mrs. Vickers from her berth, and the poor littlestudent of English history ran into her arms.

"Good Heavens, Mr. Bates, what is it?"

Bates, furious with rage, so far forgot himself as to swear. "It's a mutiny,ma'am," said he. "Go back to your cabin and lock the door. Those bloodyvillains have risen on us!" Julia Vickers felt her heart grow sick. Was shenever to escape out of this dreadful life? "Go into your cabin, ma'am," saysBates again, "and don't move a finger till I tell ye. Maybe it ain't so bad asit looks; I've got my pistols with me, thank God, and Mr. Frere'll hear theshot anyway. Mutiny? On deck there!" he cried at the full pitch of his voice,and his brow grew damp with dismay when a mocking laugh from above was the onlyresponse.

Thrusting the woman and child into the state berth, the bewildered pilotco*cked a pistol, and snatching a cutlass from the arm stand fixed to the buttof the mast which penetrated the cabin, he burst open the door with his foot,and rushed to the companion ladder. Barker had retreated to the deck, and foran instant he thought the way was clear, but Lesly and Russen thrust him backwith the muzzles of the loaded muskets. He struck at Russen with the cutlass,missed him, and, seeing the hopelessness of the attack, was fain toretreat.

In the meanwhile, Grimes and the other soldier had loosed themselves fromtheir bonds, and, encouraged by the firing, which seemed to them a sign thatall was not yet lost, made shift to force up the forehatch. Porter, whosecourage was none of the fiercest, and who had been for years given over to thatterror of discipline which servitude induces, made but a feeble attempt atresistance, and forcing the handspike from him, the sentry, Jones, rushed aftto help the pilot. As Jones reached the waist, Cheshire, a cold-bloodedblue-eyed man, shot him dead. Grimes fell over the corpse, and Cheshire,clubbing the musket—had he another barrel he would havefired—coolly battered his head as he lay, and then, seizing the body ofthe unfortunate Jones in his arms, tossed it into the sea. "Porter, youlubber!" he cried, exhausted with the effort to lift the body, "come and bear ahand with this other one!" Porter advanced aghast, but just then anotheroccurrence claimed the villain's attention, and poor Grimes's life was sparedfor that time.

Rex, inwardly raging at this unexpected resistance on the part of the pilot,flung himself on the skylight, and tore it up bodily. As he did so, Barker, whohad reloaded his musket, fired down into the cabin. The ball passed through thestate-room door, and splintering the wood, buried itself close to the goldencurls of poor little Sylvia. It was this hair's-breadth escape which drew fromthe agonized mother that shriek which, pealing through the open stern window,had roused the soldiers in the boat.

Rex, who, by the virtue of his dandyism, yet possessed some abhorrence ofuseless crime, imagined that the cry was one of pain, and that Barker's bullethad taken deadly effect. "You've killed the child, you villain!" he cried.

"What's the odds?" asked Barker sulkily. "She must die any way, sooner orlater."

Rex put his head down the skylight, and called on Bates to surrender, butBates only drew his other pistol. "Would you commit murder?" he asked, lookinground with desperation in his glance.

"No, no," cried some of the men, willing to blink the death of poor Jones."It's no use making things worse than they are. Bid him come up, and we'll dohim no harm." "Come up, Mr. Bates," says Rex, "and I give you my word yousha'n't be injured."

"Will you set the major's lady and child ashore, then?" asked Bates,sturdily facing the scowling brows above him.

"Yes."

"Without injury?" continued the other, bargaining, as it were, at the verymuzzles of the muskets.

"Ay, ay! It's all right!" returned Russen. "It's our liberty we want, that'sall."

Bates, hoping against hope for the return of the boat, endeavoured to gaintime. "Shut down the skylight, then," said he, with the ghost of an authorityin his voice, "until I ask the lady."

This, however, John Rex refused to do. "You can ask well enough where youare," he said.

But there was no need for Mr. Bates to put a question. The door of thestate-room opened, and Mrs. Vickers appeared, trembling, with Sylvia by herside. "Accept, Mr. Bates," she said, "since it must be so. We should gainnothing by refusing. We are at their mercy—God help us!"

"Amen to that," says Bates under his breath, and then aloud, "We agree!"

"Put your pistols on the table, and come up, then," says Rex, covering thetable with his musket as he spoke. "And nobody shall hurt you."

CHAPTER X. JOHN REX'S REVENGE.

Mrs Vickers, pale and sick with terror, yet sustained by that strangecourage of which we have before spoken, passed rapidly under the open skylight,and prepared to ascend. Sylvia—her romance crushed by too dreadfulreality—clung to her mother with one hand, and with the other pressedclose to her little bosom the "English History". In her all-absorbing fear shehad forgotten to lay it down.

"Get a shawl, ma'am, or something," says Bates, "and a hat for missy."

Mrs. Vickers looked back across the space beneath the open skylight, andshuddering, shook her head. The men above swore impatiently at the delay, andthe three hastened on deck.

"Who's to command the brig now?" asked undaunted Bates, as they came up.

"I am," says John Rex, "and, with these brave fellows, I'll take her roundthe world."

The touch of bombast was not out of place. It jumped so far with the humourof the convicts that they set up a feeble cheer, at which Sylvia frowned.Frightened as she was, the prison-bred child was as much astonished at hearingconvicts cheer as a fashionable lady would be to hear her footman quote poetry.Bates, however—practical and calm—took quite another view of thecase. The bold project, so boldly avowed, seemed to him a sheer absurdity. The"Dandy" and a crew of nine convicts navigate a brig round the world!Preposterous; why, not a man aboard could work a reckoning! His nautical fancypictured the Osprey helplessly rolling on the swell of the Southern Ocean, orhopelessly locked in the ice of the Antarctic Seas, and he dimly guessed at thefate of the deluded ten. Even if they got safe to port, the chances of finalescape were all against them, for what account could they give of themselves?Overpowered by these reflections, the honest fellow made one last effort tocharm his captors back to their pristine bondage.

"Fools!" he cried, "do you know what you are about to do? You will neverescape. Give up the brig, and I will declare, before my God, upon the Bible,that I will say nothing, but give all good characters."

Lesly and another burst into a laugh at this wild proposition, but Rex, whohad weighed his chances well beforehand, felt the force of the pilot's speech,and answered seriously.

"It's no use talking," he said, shaking his still handsome head. "We havegot the brig, and we mean to keep her. I can navigate her, though I am noseaman, so you needn't talk further about it, Mr. Bates. It's liberty werequire."

"What are you going to do with us?" asked Bates.

"Leave you behind."

Bates's face blanched. "What, here?"

"Yes. It don't look a picturesque spot, does it? And yet I've lived here forsome years"; and he grinned.

Bates was silent. The logic of that grin was unanswerable.

"Come!" cried the Dandy, shaking off his momentary melancholy, "look alivethere! Lower away the jolly-boat. Mrs. Vickers, go down to your cabin and getanything you want. I am compelled to put you ashore, but I have no wish toleave you without clothes." Bates listened, in a sort of dismal admiration, atthis courtly convict. He could not have spoken like that had life depended onit. "Now, my little lady," continued Rex, "run down with your mamma, and don'tbe frightened."

Sylvia flashed burning red at this indignity. "Frightened! If there had beenanybody else here but women, you never would have taken the brig. Frightened!Let me pass, prisoner!"

The whole deck burst into a great laugh at this, and poor Mrs. Vickerspaused, trembling for the consequences of the child's temerity. To thus tauntthe desperate convict who held their lives in his hands seemed sheer madness.In the boldness of the speech however, lay its safeguard. Rex—whosepoliteness was mere bravado—was stung to the quick by the reflection uponhis courage, and the bitter accent with which the child had pronounced the wordprisoner (the generic name of convicts) made him bite his lips with rage. Hadhe had his will, he would have struck the little creature to the deck, but thehoarse laugh of his companions warned him to forbear. There is "public opinion"even among convicts, and Rex dared not vent his passion on so helpless anobject. As men do in such cases, he veiled his anger beneath an affectation ofamusem*nt. In order to show that he was not moved by the taunt, he smiled uponthe taunter more graciously than ever.

"Your daughter has her father's spirit, madam," said he to Mrs. Vickers,with a bow.

Bates opened his mouth to listen. His ears were not large enough to take inthe words of this complimentary convict. He began to think that he was thevictim of a nightmare. He absolutely felt that John Rex was a greater man atthat moment than John Bates.

As Mrs. Vickers descended the hatchway, the boat with Frere and the soldierscame within musket range, and Lesly, according to orders, fired his musket overtheir heads, shouting to them to lay to But Frere, boiling with rage at themanner in which the tables had been turned on him, had determined not to resignhis lost authority without a struggle. Disregarding the summons, he camestraight on, with his eyes fixed on the vessel. It was now nearly dark, and thefigures on the deck were indistinguishable. The indignant lieutenant could butguess at the condition of affairs. Suddenly, from out of the darkness a voicehailed him—

"Hold water! back water!" it cried, and was then seemingly choked in itsowner's throat.

The voice was the property of Mr. Bates. Standing near the side, he hadobserved Rex and Fair bring up a great pig of iron, erst used as part of theballast of the brig, and poise it on the rail. Their intention was but tooevident; and honest Bates, like a faithful watch-dog, barked to warn hismaster. Bloodthirsty Cheshire caught him by the throat, and Frere, unheeding,ran the boat alongside, under the very nose of the revengeful Rex. The mass ofiron fell half in-board upon the now stayed boat, and gave her sternway, with asplintered plank.

"Villains!" cried Frere, "would you swamp us?"

"Aye," laughed Rex, "and a dozen such as ye! The brig's ours, can't ye see,and we're your masters now!"

Frere, stifling an exclamation of rage, cried to the bow to hook on, but thebow had driven the boat backward, and she was already beyond arm's length ofthe brig. Looking up, he saw Cheshire's savage face, and heard the click of thelock as he co*cked his piece. The two soldiers, exhausted by their long pull,made no effort to stay the progress of the boat, and almost before the swellcaused by the plunge of the mass of iron had ceased to agitate the water, thedeck of the Osprey had become invisible in the darkness.

Frere struck his fist upon the thwart in sheer impotence of rage. "Thescoundrels!" he said, between his teeth, "they've mastered us. What do theymean to do next?"

The answer came pat to the question. From the dark hull of the brig broke aflash and a report, and a musket ball cut the water beside them with a chirpingnoise. Between the black indistinct mass which represented the brig, and theglimmering water, was visible a white speck, which gradually neared them.

"Come alongside with ye!" hailed a voice, "or it will be the worse forye!"

"They want to murder us," says Frere. "Give way, men!"

But the two soldiers, exchanging glances one with the other, pulled theboat's head round, and made for the vessel. "It's no use, Mr. Frere," said theman nearest him; "we can do no good now, and they won't hurt us, I daresay."

"You dogs, you are in league with them," bursts out Frere, purple withindignation. "Do you mutiny?"

"Come, come, sir," returned the soldier, sulkily, "this ain't the time tobully; and, as for mutiny, why, one man's about as good as another justnow."

This speech from the lips of a man who, but a few minutes before, would haverisked his life to obey orders of his officer, did more than an hour'sreasoning to convince Maurice Frere of the hopelessness of resistance. Hisauthority—born of circ*mstance, and supported by adventitiousaid—had left him. The musket shot had reduced him to the ranks. He wasnow no more than anyone else; indeed, he was less than many, for those who heldthe firearms were the ruling powers. With a groan he resigned himself to hisfate, and looking at the sleeve of the undress uniform he wore, it seemed tohim that virtue had gone out of it. When they reached the brig, they found thatthe jolly-boat had been lowered and laid alongside. In her were eleven persons;Bates with forehead gashed, and hands bound, the stunned Grimes, Russen andFair pulling, Lyon, Riley, Cheshire, and Lesly with muskets, and John Rex inthe stern sheets, with Bates's pistols in his trousers' belt, and a loadedmusket across his knees. The white object which had been seen by the men in thewhale-boat was a large white shawl which wrapped Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia.

Frere muttered an oath of relief when he saw this white bundle. He hadfeared that the child was injured. By the direction of Rex the whale-boat wasbrought alongside the jolly-boat, and Cheshire and Lesly boarded her. Leslythen gave his musket to Rex, and bound Frere's hands behind him, in the samemanner as had been done for Bates. Frere attempted to resist this indignity,but Cheshire, clapping his musket to his ear, swore he would blow out hisbrains if he uttered another syllable; Frere, catching the malignant eye ofJohn Rex, remembered how easily a twitch of the finger would pay off oldscores, and was silent. "Step in here, sir, if you please," said Rex, withpolite irony. "I am sorry to be compelled to tie you, but I must consult my ownsafety as well as your convenience." Frere scowled, and, stepping awkwardlyinto the jolly-boat, fell. Pinioned as he was, he could not rise withoutassistance, and Russen pulled him roughly to his feet with a coarse laugh. Inhis present frame of mind, that laugh galled him worse than his bonds.

Poor Mrs. Vickers, with a woman's quick instinct, saw this, and, even amidher own trouble, found leisure to console him. "The wretches!" she said, underher breath, as Frere was flung down beside her, "to subject you to suchindignity!" Sylvia said nothing, and seemed to shrink from the lieutenant.Perhaps in her childish fancy she had pictured him as coming to her rescue,armed cap-a-pie, and clad in dazzling mail, or, at the very least, as amuscular hero, who would settle affairs out of hand by sheer personal prowess.If she had entertained any such notion, the reality must have struck coldlyupon her senses. Mr. Frere, purple, clumsy, and bound, was not at allheroic.

"Now, my lads," says Rex—who seemed to have endured the cast-offauthority of Frere—"we give you your choice. Stay at Hell's Gates, orcome with us!"

The soldiers paused, irresolute. To join the mutineers meant a certainty ofhard work, with a chance of ultimate hanging. Yet to stay with the prisonerswas—as far as they could see—to incur the inevitable fate ofstarvation on a barren coast. As is often the case on such occasions, a triflesufficed to turn the scale. The wounded Grimes, who was slowly recovering fromhis stupor, dimly caught the meaning of the sentence, and in his obfuscatedcondition of intellect must needs make comment upon it. "Go with him, yebeggars!" said he, "and leave us honest men! Oh, ye'll get a tying-up forthis."

The phrase "tying-up" brought with it recollection of the worst portion ofmilitary discipline, the cat, and revived in the minds of the pair alreadydisposed to break the yoke that sat so heavily upon them, a train of dismalmemories. The life of a soldier on a convict station was at that time a hardone. He was often stinted in rations, and of necessity deprived of all rationalrecreation, while punishment for offences was prompt and severe. The companiesdrafted to the penal settlements were not composed of the best material, andthe pair had good precedent for the course they were about to take.

"Come," says Rex, "I can't wait here all night. The wind is freshening, andwe must make the Bar. Which is it to be?"

"We'll go with you!" says the man who had pulled the stroke in thewhale-boat, spitting into the water with averted face. Upon which utterance theconvicts burst into joyous oaths, and the pair were received with muchhand-shaking.

Then Rex, with Lyon and Riley as a guard, got into the whale boat, andhaving loosed the two prisoners from their bonds, ordered them to take theplace of Russen and Fair. The whale-boat was manned by the seven mutineers, Rexsteering, Fair, Russen, and the two recruits pulling, and the other fourstanding up, with their muskets levelled at the jolly-boat. Their long slaveryhad begotten such a dread of authority in these men that they feared it evenwhen it was bound and menaced by four muskets. "Keep your distance!" shoutedCheshire, as Frere and Bates, in obedience to orders, began to pull thejolly-boat towards the shore; and in this fashion was the dismal little partyconveyed to the mainland.

It was night when they reached it, but the clear sky began to thrill with alate moon as yet unrisen, and the waves, breaking gently upon the beach,glimmered with a radiance born of their own motion. Frere and Bates, jumpingashore, helped out Mrs. Vickers, Sylvia, and the wounded Grimes. This beingdone under the muzzles of the muskets, Rex commanded that Bates and Frereshould push the jolly-boat as far as they could from the shore, and Rileycatching her by a boat-hook as she came towards them, she was taken in tow.

"Now, boys," says Cheshire, with a savage delight, "three cheers for oldEngland and Liberty!"

Upon which a great shout went up, echoed by the grim hills which hadwitnessed so many miseries.

To the wretched five, this exultant mirth sounded like a knell of death."Great God!" cried Bates, running up to his knees in water after the departingboats, "would you leave us here to starve?"

The only answer was the jerk and dip of the retreating oars.

CHAPTER XI. LEFT AT "HELL'S GATES."

There is no need to dwell upon the mental agonies of that miserable night.Perhaps, of all the five, the one least qualified to endure it realized theprospect of suffering most acutely. Mrs. Vickers—lay-figure and noodle asshe was—had the keen instinct of approaching danger, which is in her sexa sixth sense. She was a woman and a mother, and owned a double capacity forsuffering. Her feminine imagination pictured all the horrors of death byfamine, and having realized her own torments, her maternal love forced her tolive them over again in the person of her child. Rejecting Bates's offer of apea-jacket and Frere's vague tenders of assistance, the poor woman withdrewbehind a rock that faced the sea, and, with her daughter in her arms, resignedherself to her torturing thoughts. Sylvia, recovered from her terror, wasalmost content, and, curled in her mother's shawl, slept. To her little soulthis midnight mystery of boats and muskets had all the flavour of a romance.With Bates, Frere, and her mother so close to her, it was impossible to beafraid; besides, it was obvious that papa—the Supreme Being of thesettlement—must at once return and severely punish the impertinentprisoners who had dared to insult his wife and child, and as Sylvia dropped offto sleep, she caught herself, with some indignation, pitying the mutineers forthe tremendous scrape they had got themselves into. How they would be floggedwhen papa came back! In the meantime this sleeping in the open air was noveland rather pleasant.

Honest Bates produced a piece of biscuit, and, with all the generosity ofhis nature, suggested that this should be set aside for the sole use of the twofemales, but Mrs. Vickers would not hear of it. "We must all share alike," saidshe, with something of the spirit that she knew her husband would havedisplayed under like circ*mstance; and Frere wondered at her apparent strengthof mind. Had he been gifted with more acuteness, he would not have wondered;for when a crisis comes to one of two persons who have lived much together, theinfluence of the nobler spirit makes itself felt. Frere had a tinder-box in hispocket, and he made a fire with some dry leaves and sticks. Grimes fell asleep,and the two men sitting at their fire discussed the chances of escape. Neitherliked to openly broach the supposition that they had been finally deserted. Itwas concluded between them that unless the brig sailed in the night—andthe now risen moon showed her yet lying at anchor—the convicts wouldreturn and bring them food. This supposition proved correct, for about an hourafter daylight they saw the whale-boat pulling towards them.

A discussion had arisen amongst the mutineers as to the propriety of at oncemaking sail, but Barker, who had been one of the pilot-boat crew, and knew thedangers of the Bar, vowed that he would not undertake to steer the brig throughthe Gates until morning; and so the boats being secured astern, a strict watchwas set, lest the helpless Bates should attempt to rescue the vessel. Duringthe evening—the excitement attendant upon the outbreak having passedaway, and the magnitude of the task before them being more fully apparent totheir minds—a feeling of pity for the unfortunate party on the mainlandtook possession of them. It was quite possible that the Osprey might berecaptured, in which case five useless murders would have been committed; andhowever callous in bloodshed were the majority of the ten, not one among themcould contemplate in cold blood, without a twinge of remorse, the death of theharmless child of the Commandant.

John Rex, seeing how matters were going, made haste to take to himself thecredit of mercy. He ruled, and had always ruled, his ruffians not so much bysuggesting to them the course they should take, as by leading them on the waythey had already chosen for themselves. "I propose," said he, "that we dividethe provisions. There are five of them and twelve of us. Then nobody can blameus."

"Ay," said Porter, mindful of a similar exploit, "and if we're taken, theycan tell what we have done. Don't let our affair be like that of the Cypress,to leave them to starve." "Ay, ay," says Barker, "you're right! When Fergussonwas topped at Hobart Town, I heard old Troke say that if he'd not refused toset the tucker ashore, he might ha' got off with a whole skin."

Thus urged, by self-interest, as well as sentiment, to mercy, the provisionwas got upon deck by daylight, and a division was made. The soldiers, withgenerosity born of remorse, were for giving half to the marooned men, butBarker exclaimed against this. "When the schooner finds they don't get toheadquarters, she's bound to come back and look for 'em," said he; "and we'llwant all the tucker we can get, maybe, afore we sights land."

This reasoning was admitted and acted upon. There was in the harness-caskabout fifty pounds of salt meat, and a third of this quantity, together withhalf a small sack of flour, some tea and sugar mixed together in a bag, and aniron kettle and pannikin, was placed in the whale-boat. Rex, fearful ofexcesses among his crew, had also lowered down one of the two small puncheonsof rum which the store-room contained. Cheshire disputed this, and stumblingover a goat that had been taken on board from Philip's Island, caught thecreature by the leg, and threw it into the sea, bidding Rex take that with himalso. Rex dragged the poor beast into the boat, and with this miscellaneouscargo pushed off to the shore. The poor goat, shivering, began to bleatpiteously, and the men laughed. To a stranger it would have appeared that theboat contained a happy party of fishermen, or coast settlers, returning withthe proceeds of a day's marketing.

Laying off as the water shallowed, Rex called to Bates to come for thecargo, and three men with muskets standing up as before, ready to resist anyattempt at capture, the provisions, goat and all, were carried ashore. "There!"says Rex, "you can't say we've used you badly, for we've divided theprovisions." The sight of this almost unexpected succour revived the courage ofthe five, and they felt grateful. After the horrible anxiety they had enduredall that night, they were prepared to look with kindly eyes upon the men whohad come to their assistance.

"Men," said Bates, with something like a sob in his voice, "I didn't expectthis. You are good fellows, for there ain't much tucker aboard, I know."

"Yes," affirmed Frere, "you're good fellows."

Rex burst into a savage laugh. "Shut your mouth, you tyrant," said he,forgetting his dandyism in the recollection of his former suffering. "It ain'tfor your benefit. You may thank the lady and the child for it."

Julia Vickers hastened to propitiate the arbiter of her daughter's fate. "Weare obliged to you," she said, with a touch of quiet dignity resembling herhusband's; "and if I ever get back safely, I will take care that your kindnessshall be known."

The swindler and forger took off his leather cap with quite an air. It wasfive years since a lady had spoken to him, and the old time when he was Mr.Lionel Crofton, a "gentleman sportsman", came back again for an instant. Atthat moment, with liberty in his hand, and fortune all before him, he felt hisself-respect return, and he looked the lady in the face without flinching.

"I sincerely trust, madam," said he, "that you will get back safely. May Ihope for your good wishes for myself and my companions?"

Listening, Bates burst into a roar of astonished enthusiasm. "What a dog itis!" he cried. "John Rex, John Rex, you were never made to be a convict,man!"

Rex smiled. "Good-bye, Mr. Bates, and God preserve you!"

"Good-bye," says Bates, rubbing his hat off his face, "andI—I—damme, I hope you'll get safe off—there! for liberty'ssweet to every man."

"Good-bye, prisoners!" says Sylvia, waving her handkerchief; "and I hopethey won't catch you, too."

So, with cheers and waving of handkerchiefs, the boat departed.

In the emotion which the apparently disinterested conduct of John Rex hadoccasioned the exiles, all earnest thought of their own position had vanished,and, strange to say, the prevailing feeling was that of anxiety for theultimate fate of the mutineers. But as the boat grew smaller and smaller in thedistance, so did their consciousness of their own situation grow more and moredistinct; and when at last the boat had disappeared in the shadow of the brig,all started, as if from a dream, to the wakeful contemplation of their owncase.

A council of war was held, with Mr. Frere at the head of it, and thepossessions of the little party were thrown into common stock. The salt meat,flour, and tea were placed in a hollow rock at some distance from the beach,and Mr. Bates was appointed purser, to apportion to each, without fear orfavour, his stated allowance. The goat was tethered with a piece of fishingline sufficiently long to allow her to browse. The cask of rum, by specialagreement, was placed in the innermost recess of the rock, and it was resolvedthat its contents should not be touched except in case of sickness, or in lastextremity. There was no lack of water, for a spring ran bubbling from the rockswithin a hundred yards of the spot where the party had landed. They calculatedthat, with prudence, their provisions would last them for nearly fourweeks.

It was found, upon a review of their possessions, that they had among themthree pocket knives, a ball of string, two pipes, matches and a fig of tobacco,fishing lines with hooks, and a big jack-knife which Frere had taken to gut thefish he had expected to catch. But they saw with dismay that there was nothingwhich could be used axe-wise among the party. Mrs. Vickers had her shawl, andBates a pea-jacket, but Frere and Grimes were without extra clothing. It wasagreed that each should retain his own property, with the exception of thefishing lines, which were confiscated to the commonwealth.

Having made these arrangements, the kettle, filled with water from thespring, was slung from three green sticks over the fire, and a pannikin of weaktea, together with a biscuit, served out to each of the party, save Grimes, whodeclared himself unable to eat. Breakfast over, Bates made a damper, which wascooked in the ashes, and then another council was held as to futurehabitation.

It was clearly evident that they could not sleep in the open air. It was themiddle of summer, and though no annoyance from rain was apprehended, the heatin the middle of the day was most oppressive. Moreover, it was absolutelynecessary that Mrs. Vickers and the child should have some place to themselves.At a little distance from the beach was a sandy rise, that led up to the faceof the cliff, and on the eastern side of this rise grew a forest of youngtrees. Frere proposed to cut down these trees, and make a sort of hut withthem. It was soon discovered, however, that the pocket knives were insufficientfor this purpose, but by dint of notching the young saplings and then breakingthem down, they succeeded, in a couple of hours, in collecting wood enough toroof over a space between the hollow rock which contained the provisions andanother rock, in shape like a hammer, which jutted out within five yards of it.Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia were to have this hut as a sleeping-place, and Frereand Bates, lying at the mouth of the larder, would at once act as a guard to itand them. Grimes was to make for himself another hut where the fire had beenlighted on the previous night.

When they got back to dinner, inspirited by this resolution, they found poorMrs. Vickers in great alarm. Grimes, who, by reason of the dint in his skull,had been left behind, was walking about the sea-beach, talking mysteriously,and shaking his fist at an imaginary foe. On going up to him, they discoveredthat the blow had affected his brain, for he was delirious. Frere endeavouredto soothe him, without effect; and at last, by Bates's advice, the poor fellowwas rolled in the sea. The cold bath quelled his violence, and, being laidbeneath the shade of a rock hard by, he fell into a condition of great muscularexhaustion, and slept.

The damper was then portioned out by Bates, and, together with a small pieceof meat, it formed the dinner of the party. Mrs. Vickers reported that she hadobserved a great commotion on board the brig, and thought that the prisonersmust be throwing overboard such portions of the cargo as were not absolutelynecessary to them, in order to lighten her. This notion Bates declared to becorrect, and further pointed out that the mutineers had got out a kedge-anchor,and by hauling on the kedge-line, were gradually warping the brig down theharbour. Before dinner was over a light breeze sprang up, and the Osprey,running up the union-jack reversed, fired a musket, either in farewell ortriumph, and, spreading her sails, disappeared round the western horn of theharbour.

Mrs. Vickers, taking Sylvia with her, went away a few paces, and leaningagainst the rugged wall of her future home, wept bitterly. Bates and Frereaffected cheerfulness, but each felt that he had hitherto regarded the presenceof the brig as a sort of safeguard, and had never fully realized his ownloneliness until now.

The necessity for work, however, admitted of no indulgence of vain sorrow,and Bates setting the example, the pair worked so hard that by nightfall theyhad torn down and dragged together sufficient brushwood to complete Mrs.Vickers's hut. During the progress of this work they were often interrupted byGrimes, who persisted in vague rushes at them, exclaiming loudly against theirsupposed treachery in leaving him at the mercy of the mutineers. Bates alsocomplained of the pain caused by the wound in his forehead, and that he wasafflicted with a giddiness which he knew not how to avert. By dint offrequently bathing his head at the spring, however, he succeeded in keeping onhis legs, until the work of dragging together the boughs was completed, when hethrew himself on the ground, and declared that he could rise no more.

Frere applied to him the remedy that had been so successfully tried uponGrimes, but the salt water inflamed his wound and rendered his condition worse.Mrs. Vickers recommended that a little spirit and water should be used to washthe cut, and the cask was got out and broached for that purpose. Tea and damperformed their evening meal; and by the light of a blazing fire, their conditionlooked less desperate. Mrs. Vickers had set the pannikin on a flat stone, anddispensed the tea with an affectation of dignity which would have been absurdhad it not been heart-rending. She had smoothed her hair and pinned the whiteshawl about her coquettishly; she even ventured to lament to Mr. Frere that shehad not brought more clothes. Sylvia was in high spirits, and scorned toconfess hunger. When the tea had been drunk, she fetched water from the springin the kettle, and bathed Bates's head with it. It was resolved that, on themorrow, a search should be made for some place from which to cast the fishingline, and that one of the number should fish daily.

The condition of the unfortunate Grimes now gave cause for the greatestuneasiness. From maundering foolishly he had taken to absolute violence, andhad to be watched by Frere. After much muttering and groaning, the poor fellowat last dropped off to sleep, and Frere, having assisted Bates to hissleeping-place in front of the rock, and laid him down on a heap of greenbrushwood, prepared to snatch a few hours' slumber. Wearied by excitement andthe labours of the day, he slept heavily, but, towards morning, was awakened bya strange noise.

Grimes, whose delirium had apparently increased, had succeeded in forcinghis way through the rude fence of brushwood, and had thrown himself upon Bateswith the ferocity of insanity. Growling to himself, he had seized theunfortunate pilot by the throat, and the pair were struggling together. Bates,weakened by the sickness that had followed upon his wound in the head, wasquite unable to cope with his desperate assailant, but calling feebly uponFrere for help, had made shift to lay hold upon the jack-knife of which we havebefore spoken. Frere, starting to his feet, rushed to the assistance of thepilot, but was too late. Grimes, enraged by the sight of the knife, tore itfrom Bates's grasp, and before Frere could catch his arm, plunged it twice intothe unfortunate man's breast.

"I'm a dead man!" cried Bates faintly.

The sight of the blood, together with the exclamation of his victim,recalled Grimes to consciousness. He looked in bewilderment at the bloodyweapon, and then, flinging it from him, rushed away towards the sea, into whichhe plunged headlong.

Frere, aghast at this sudden and terrible tragedy, gazed after him, and sawfrom out the placid water, sparkling in the bright beams of morning, a pair ofarms, with outstretched hands, emerge; a black spot, that was a head, uprosebetween these stiffening arms, and then, with a horrible cry, the wholedisappeared, and the bright water sparkled as placidly as before. The eyes ofthe terrified Frere, travelling back to the wounded man, saw, midway betweenthis sparkling water and the knife that lay on the sand, an object that wentfar to explain the maniac's sudden burst of fury. The rum cask lay upon itsside by the remnants of last night's fire, and close to it was a clout, withwhich the head of the wounded man had been bound. It was evident that the poorcreature, wandering in his delirium, had come across the rum cask, drunk aquantity of its contents, and been maddened by the fiery spirit.

Frere hurried to the side of Bates, and lifting him up, strove to staunchthe blood that flowed from his chest. It would seem that he had been restinghimself on his left elbow, and that Grimes, snatching the knife from his righthand, had stabbed him twice in the right breast. He was pale and senseless, andFrere feared that the wound was mortal. Tearing off his neck-handkerchief, heendeavoured to bandage the wound, but found that the strip of silk wasinsufficient for the purpose. The noise had roused Mrs. Vickers, who, stiflingher terror, made haste to tear off a portion of her dress, and with this abandage of sufficient width was made. Frere went to the cask to see if, haply,he could obtain from it a little spirit with which to moisten the lips of thedying man, but it was empty. Grimes, after drinking his fill, had overturnedthe unheaded puncheon, and the greedy sand had absorbed every drop of liquor.Sylvia brought some water from the spring, and Mrs. Vickers bathing Bates'shead with this, he revived a little. By-and-by Mrs. Vickers milked thegoat—she had never done such a thing before in all her life—and themilk being given to Bates in a pannikin, he drank it eagerly, but vomited italmost instantly. It was evident that he was sinking from some internalinjury.

None of the party had much appetite for breakfast, but Frere, whosesensibilities were less acute than those of the others, ate a piece of saltmeat and damper. It struck him, with a curious feeling of pleasant selfishness,that now Grimes had gone, the allowance of provisions would be increased, andthat if Bates went also, it would be increased still further. He did not giveutterance to his thoughts, however, but sat with the wounded man's head on hisknees, and brushed the settling flies from his face. He hoped, after all, thatthe pilot would not die, for he should then be left alone to look after thewomen. Perhaps some such thought was agitating Mrs. Vickers also. As forSylvia, she made no secret of her anxiety.

"Don't die, Mr. Bates—oh, don't die!" she said, standing piteouslynear, but afraid to touch him. "Don't leave mamma and me alone in this dreadfulplace!"

Poor Bates, of course, said nothing, but Frere frowned heavily, and Mrs.Vickers said reprovingly, "Sylvia!" just as if they had been in the old houseon distant Sarah Island.

In the afternoon Frere went away to drag together some wood for the fire,and when he returned he found the pilot near his end. Mrs. Vickers said thatfor an hour he had lain without motion, and almost without breath. The major'swife had seen more than one death-bed, and was calm enough; but poor littleSylvia, sitting on a stone hard by, shook with terror. She had a dim notionthat death must be accompanied by violence. As the sun sank, Bates rallied; butthe two watchers knew that it was but the final flicker of the expiring candle."He's going!" said Frere at length, under his breath, as though fearful ofawaking his half-slumbering soul. Mrs. Vickers, her eyes streaming with silenttears, lifted the honest head, and moistened the parched lips with her soakedhandkerchief. A tremor shook the once stalwart limbs, and the dying man openedhis eyes. For an instant he seemed bewildered, and then, looking from one tothe other, intelligence returned to his glance, and it was evident that heremembered all. His gaze rested upon the pale face of the affrighted Sylvia,and then turned to Frere. There could be no mistaking the mute appeal of thoseeloquent eyes.

"Yes, I'll take care of her," said Frere.

Bates smiled, and then, observing that the blood from his wound had stainedthe white shawl of Mrs. Vickers, he made an effort to move his head. It was notfitting that a lady's shawl should be stained with the blood of a poor fellowlike himself. The fashionable fribble, with quick instinct, understood thegesture, and gently drew the head back upon her bosom. In the presence of deaththe woman was womanly. For a moment all was silent, and they thought he hadgone; but all at once he opened his eyes and looked round for the sea.

"Turn my face to it once more," he whispered; and as they raised him, heinclined his ear to listen. "It's calm enough here, God bless it," he said;"but I can hear the waves a-breaking hard upon the Bar!"

And so his head dropped, and he died.

As Frere relieved Mrs. Vickers from the weight of the corpse, Sylvia ran toher mother. "Oh, mamma, mamma," she cried, "why did God let him die when wewanted him so much?"

Before it grew dark, Frere made shift to carry the body to the shelter ofsome rocks at a little distance, and spreading the jacket over the face, hepiled stones upon it to keep it steady. The march of events had been so rapidthat he scarcely realized that since the previous evening two of the five humancreatures left in this wilderness had escaped from it. As he did realize it, hebegan to wonder whose turn it would be next.

Mrs. Vickers, worn out by the fatigue and excitement of the day, retired torest early; and Sylvia, refusing to speak to Frere, followed her mother. Thismanifestation of unaccountable dislike on the part of the child hurt Mauricemore than he cared to own. He felt angry with her for not loving him, and yethe took no pains to conciliate her. It was with a curious pleasure that heremembered how she must soon look up to him as her chief protector. Had Sylviabeen just a few years older, the young man would have thought himself in lovewith her.

The following day passed gloomily. It was hot and sultry, and a dull hazehung over the mountains. Frere spent the morning in scooping a grave in thesand, in which to inter poor Bates. Practically awake to his own necessities,he removed such portions of clothing from the body as would be useful to him,but hid them under a stone, not liking to let Mrs. Vickers see what he haddone. Having completed the grave by midday, he placed the corpse therein, androlled as many stones as possible to the sides of the mound. In the afternoonhe cast the fishing line from the point of a rock he had marked the day before,but caught nothing. Passing by the grave, on his return, he noticed that Mrs.Vickers had placed at the head of it a rude cross, formed by tying two piecesof stick together.

After supper—the usual salt meat and damper—he lit an economicalpipe, and tried to talk to Sylvia. "Why won't you be friends with me, missy?"he asked.

"I don't like you," said Sylvia. "You frighten me."

"Why?"

"You are not kind. I don't mean that you do cruel things; but youare—oh, I wish papa was here!" "Wishing won't bring him!" says Frere,pressing his hoarded tobacco together with prudent forefinger.

"There! That's what I mean! Is that kind? 'Wishing won't bring him!' Oh, ifit only would!"

"I didn't mean it unkindly," says Frere. "What a strange child you are."

"There are persons," says Sylvia, "who have no Affinity for each other. Iread about it in a book papa had, and I suppose that's what it is. I have noAffinity for you. I can't help it, can I?"

"Rubbish!" Frere returned. "Come here, and I'll tell you a story."

Mrs. Vickers had gone back to her cave, and the two were alone by the fire,near which stood the kettle and the newly-made damper. The child, with someshow of hesitation, came to him, and he caught and placed her on his knee. Themoon had not yet risen, and the shadows cast by the flickering fire seemedweird and monstrous. The wicked wish to frighten this helpless creature came toMaurice Frere.

"There was once," said he, "a Castle in an old wood, and in this Castlethere lived an Ogre, with great goggle eyes."

"You silly man!" said Sylvia, struggling to be free. "You are trying tofrighten me!"

"And this Ogre lived on the bones of little girls. One day a little girl wastravelling the wood, and she heard the Ogre coming. 'Haw! haw! Haw! haw!'"

"Mr. Frere, let me down!"

"She was terribly frightened, and she ran, and ran, and ran, until all of asudden she saw—"

A piercing scream burst from his companion. "Oh! oh! What's that?" shecried, and clung to her persecutor.

Beyond the fire stood the figure of a man. He staggered forward, and then,falling on his knees, stretched out his hands, and hoarsely articulated oneword—"Food." It was Rufus Dawes.

The sound of a human voice broke the spell of terror that was on the child,and as the glow from the fire fell upon the tattered yellow garments, sheguessed at once the whole story. Not so Maurice Frere. He saw before him a newdanger, a new mouth to share the scanty provision, and snatching a brand fromthe fire he kept the convict at bay. But Rufus Dawes, glaring round withwolfish eyes, caught sight of the damper resting against the iron kettle, andmade a clutch at it. Frere dashed the brand in his face. "Stand back!" hecried. "We have no food to spare!"

The convict uttered a savage cry, and raising the iron gad, plunged forwarddesperately to attack this new enemy; but, quick as thought, the child glidedpast Frere, and, snatching the loaf, placed it in the hands of the starvingman, with "Here, poor prisoner, eat!" and then, turning to Frere, she cast uponhim a glance so full of horror, indignation, and surprise, that the man blushedand threw down the brand.

As for Rufus Dawes, the sudden apparition of this golden-haired girl seemedto have transformed him. Allowing the loaf to slip through his fingers, hegazed with haggard eyes at the retreating figure of the child, and as itvanished into the darkness outside the circle of firelight, the unhappy mansank his face upon his blackened, horny hands, and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XII. "MR." DAWES.

The coarse tones of Maurice Frere roused him. "What do you want?" he asked.Rufus Dawes, raising his head, contemplated the figure before him, andrecognized it. "Is it you?" he said slowly.

"What do you mean? Do you know me?" asked Frere, drawing back. But theconvict did not reply. His momentary emotion passed away, the pangs of hungerreturned, and greedily seizing upon the piece of damper, he began to eat insilence.

"Do you hear, man?" repeated Frere, at length. "What are you?"

"An escaped prisoner. You can give me up in the morning. I've done my best,and I'm beat."

The sentence struck Frere with dismay. The man did not know that thesettlement had been abandoned!

"I cannot give you up. There is no one but myself and a woman and child onthe settlement." Rufus Dawes, pausing in his eating, stared at him inamazement. "The prisoners have gone away in the schooner. If you choose toremain free, you can do so as far as I am concerned. I am as helpless as youare."

"But how do you come here?"

Frere laughed bitterly. To give explanations to convicts was foreign to hisexperience, and he did not relish the task. In this case, however, there was nohelp for it. "The prisoners mutinied and seized the brig."

"What brig?"

"The Osprey."

A terrible light broke upon Rufus Dawes, and he began to understand how hehad again missed his chance. "Who took her?"

"That double-dyed villain, John Rex," says Frere, giving vent to hispassion. "May she sink, and burn, and—"

"Have they gone, then?" cried the miserable man, clutching at his hair witha gesture of hopeless rage.

"Yes; two days ago, and left us here to starve." Rufus Dawes burst into alaugh so discordant that it made the other shudder. "We'll starve together,Maurice Frere," said he, "for while you've a crust, I'll share it. If I don'tget liberty, at least I'll have revenge!"

The sinister aspect of this famished savage, sitting with his chin on hisragged knees, rocking himself to and fro in the light of the fire, gave Mr.Maurice Frere a new sensation. He felt as might have felt that African hunterwho, returning to his camp fire, found a lion there. "Wretch!" said he,shrinking from him, "why should you wish to be revenged on me?"

The convict turned upon him with a snarl. "Take care what you say! I'll haveno hard words. Wretch! If I am a wretch, who made me one? If I hate you andmyself and the world, who made me hate it? I was born free—as free as youare. Why should I be sent to herd with beasts, and condemned to this slavery,worse than death? Tell me that, Maurice Frere—tell me that!" "I didn'tmake the laws," says Frere, "why do you attack me?"

"Because you are what I was. You are FREE! You can do as you please. You canlove, you can work, you can think. I can only hate!" He paused as if astonishedat himself, and then continued, with a low laugh. "Fine words for a convict,eh! But, never mind, it's all right, Mr. Frere; we're equal now, and I sha'n'tdie an hour sooner than you, though you are a 'free man'!"

Frere began to think that he was dealing with another madman.

"Die! There's no need to talk of dying," he said, as soothingly as it waspossible for him to say it. "Time enough for that by-and-by."

"There spoke the free man. We convicts have an advantage over you gentlemen.You are afraid of death; we pray for it. It is the best thing that can happento us. Die! They were going to hang me once. I wish they had. My God, I wishthey had!"

There was such a depth of agony in this terrible utterance that MauriceFrere was appalled at it. "There, go and sleep, my man," he said. "You areknocked up. We'll talk in the morning."

"Hold on a bit!" cried Rufus Dawes, with a coarseness of manner altogetherforeign to that he had just assumed. "Who's with ye?"

"The wife and daughter of the Commandant," replied Frere, half afraid torefuse an answer to a question so fiercely put.

"No one else?"

"No." "Poor souls!" said the convict, "I pity them." And then he stretchedhimself, like a dog, before the blaze, and went to sleep instantly. MauriceFrere, looking at the gaunt figure of this addition to the party, wascompletely puzzled how to act. Such a character had never before come withinthe range of his experience. He knew not what to make of this fierce, ragged,desperate man, who wept and threatened by turns—who was now snarling inthe most repulsive bass of the convict gamut, and now calling upon Heaven intones which were little less than eloquent. At first he thought ofprecipitating himself upon the sleeping wretch and pinioning him, but a secondglance at the sinewy, though wasted, limbs forbade him to follow out the rashsuggestion of his own fears. Then a horrible prompting—arising out of hisformer cowardice—made him feel for the jack-knife with which one murderhad already been committed. Their stock of provisions was so scanty, and afterall, the lives of the woman and child were worth more than that of this unknowndesperado! But, to do him justice, the thought no sooner shaped itself than hecrushed it out. "We'll wait till morning, and see how he shapes," said Frere tohimself; and pausing at the brushwood barricade, behind which the mother anddaughter were clinging to each other, he whispered that he was on guardoutside, and that the absconder slept. But when morning dawned, he found thatthere was no need for alarm. The convict was lying in almost the same positionas that in which he had left him, and his eyes were closed. His threateningoutbreak of the previous night had been produced by the excitement of hissudden rescue, and he was now incapable of violence. Frere advanced, and shookhim by the shoulder.

"Not alive!" cried the poor wretch, waking with a start, and raising his armto strike. "Keep off!"

"It's all right," said Frere. "No one is going to harm you. Wake up."

Rufus Dawes glanced around him stupidly, and then remembering what hadhappened, with a great effort, he staggered to his feet. "I thought they'd gotme!" he said, "but it's the other way, I see. Come, let's have breakfast, Mr.Frere. I'm hungry."

"You must wait," said Frere. "Do you think there is no one here butyourself?"

Rufus Dawes, swaying to and fro from weakness, passed his shred of a cuffover his eyes. "I don't know anything about it. I only know I'm hungry."

Frere stopped short. Now or never was the time to settle future relations.Lying awake in the night, with the jack-knife ready to his hand, he had decidedon the course of action that must be adopted. The convict should share with therest, but no more. If he rebelled at that, there must be a trial of strengthbetween them. "Look you here," he said. "We have but barely enough food toserve us until help comes—if it does come. I have the care of that poorwoman and child, and I will see fair play for their sakes. You shall share withus to our last bit and drop, but, by Heaven, you shall get no more."

The convict, stretching out his wasted arms, looked down upon them with theuncertain gaze of a drunken man. "I am weak now," he said. "You have the bestof me"; and then he sank suddenly down upon the ground, exhausted. "Give me adrink," he moaned, feebly motioning with his hand. Frere got him water in thepannikin, and having drunk it, he smiled and lay down to sleep again. Mrs.Vickers and Sylvia, coming out while he still slept, recognized him as thedesperado of the settlement.

"He was the most desperate man we had," said Mrs. Vickers, identifyingherself with her husband. "Oh, what shall we do?"

"He won't do much harm," returned Frere, looking down at the notoriousruffian with curiosity. "He's as near dead as can be."

Sylvia looked up at him with her clear child's glance. "We mustn't let himdie," said she. "That would be murder." "No, no," returned Frere, hastily, "noone wants him to die. But what can we do?"

"I'll nurse him!" cried Sylvia.

Frere broke into one of his coarse laughs, the first one that he hadindulged in since the mutiny. "You nurse him! By George, that's a good one!"The poor little child, weak and excitable, felt the contempt in the tone, andburst into a passion of sobs. "Why do you insult me, you wicked man? The poorfellow's ill, and he'll—he'll die, like Mr. Bates. Oh, mamma, mamma,Let's go away by ourselves."

Frere swore a great oath, and walked away. He went into the little woodunder the cliff, and sat down. He was full of strange thoughts, which he couldnot express, and which he had never owned before. The dislike the child bore tohim made him miserable, and yet he took delight in tormenting her. He wasconscious that he had acted the part of a coward the night before inendeavouring to frighten her, and that the detestation she bore him was wellearned; but he had fully determined to stake his life in her defence, shouldthe savage who had thus come upon them out of the desert attempt violence, andhe was unreasonably angry at the pity she had shown. It was not fair to be thusmisinterpreted. But he had done wrong to swear, and more so in quitting them soabruptly. The consciousness of his wrong-doing, however, only made him moreconfirmed in it. His native obstinacy would not allow him to retract what hehad said—even to himself. Walking along, he came to Bates's grave, andthe cross upon it. Here was another evidence of ill-treatment. She had alwayspreferred Bates. Now that Bates was gone, she must needs transfer her childishaffections to a convict. "Oh," said Frere to himself, with pleasantrecollections of many coarse triumphs in love-making, "if you were a woman, youlittle vixen, I'd make you love me!" When he had said this, he laughed athimself for his folly—he was turning romantic! When he got back, he foundDawes stretched upon the brushwood, with Sylvia sitting near him.

"He is better," said Mrs. Vickers, disdaining to refer to the scene of themorning. "Sit down and have something to eat, Mr. Frere."

"Are you better?" asked Frere, abruptly.

To his surprise, the convict answered quite civilly, "I shall be strongagain in a day or two, and then I can help you, sir."

"Help me? How?" "To build a hut here for the ladies. And we'll live here allour lives, and never go back to the sheds any more."

"He has been wandering a little," said Mrs. Vickers. "Poor fellow, he seemsquite well behaved."

The convict began to sing a little German song, and to beat the refrain withhis hand. Frere looked at him with curiosity. "I wonder what the story of thatman's life has been," he said. "A queer one, I'll be bound."

Sylvia looked up at him with a forgiving smile. "I'll ask him when he getswell," she said, "and if you are good, I'll tell you, Mr. Frere."

Frere accepted the proffered friendship. "I am a great brute, Sylvia,sometimes, ain't I?" he said, "but I don't mean it."

"You are," returned Sylvia, frankly, "but let's shake hands, and be friends.It's no use quarrelling when there are only four of us, is it?" And in this waywas Rufus Dawes admitted a member of the family circle.

Within a week from the night on which he had seen the smoke of Frere's fire,the convict had recovered his strength, and had become an important personage.The distrust with which he had been at first viewed had worn off, and he was nolonger an outcast, to be shunned and pointed at, or to be referred to inwhispers. He had abandoned his rough manner, and no longer threatened orcomplained, and though at times a profound melancholy would oppress him, hisspirits were more even than those of Frere, who was often moody, sullen, andoverbearing. Rufus Dawes was no longer the brutalized wretch who had plungedinto the dark waters of the bay to escape a life he loathed, and hadalternately cursed and wept in the solitudes of the forests. He was an activemember of society—a society of four—and he began to regain an airof independence and authority. This change had been wrought by the influence oflittle Sylvia. Recovered from the weakness consequent upon this terriblejourney, Rufus Dawes had experienced for the first time in six years thesoothing power of kindness. He had now an object to live for beyond himself. Hewas of use to somebody, and had he died, he would have been regretted. To usthis means little; to this unhappy man it meant everything. He found, to hisastonishment, that he was not despised, and that, by the strange concurrence ofcirc*mstances, he had been brought into a position in which his convictexperiences gave him authority. He was skilled in all the mysteries of theprison sheds. He knew how to sustain life on as little food as possible. Hecould fell trees without an axe, bake bread without an oven, build aweatherproof hut without bricks or mortar. From the patient he became theadviser; and from the adviser, the commander. In the semi-savage state to whichthese four human beings had been brought, he found that savage accomplishmentswere of most value. Might was Right, and Maurice Frere's authority of gentilitysoon succumbed to Rufus Dawes's authority of knowledge.

As the time wore on, and the scanty stock of provisions decreased, he foundthat his authority grew more and more powerful. Did a question arise as to thequalities of a strange plant, it was Rufus Dawes who could pronounce upon it.Were fish to be caught, it was Rufus Dawes who caught them. Did Mrs. Vickerscomplain of the instability of her brushwood hut, it was Rufus Dawes who workeda wicker shield, and plastering it with clay, produced a wall that defied thekeenest wind. He made cups out of pine-knots, and plates out of bark-strips. Heworked harder than any three men. Nothing daunted him, nothing discouraged him.When Mrs. Vickers fell sick, from anxiety and insufficient food, it was RufusDawes who gathered fresh leaves for her couch, who cheered her by hopefulwords, who voluntarily gave up half his own allowance of meat that she mightgrow stronger on it. The poor woman and her child called him "Mr." Dawes.

Frere watched all this with dissatisfaction that amounted at times topositive hatred. Yet he could say nothing, for he could not but acknowledgethat, beside Dawes, he was incapable. He even submitted to take orders fromthis escaped convict—it was so evident that the escaped convict knewbetter than he. Sylvia began to look upon Dawes as a second Bates. He was,moreover, all her own. She had an interest in him, for she had nursed andprotected him. If it had not been for her, this prodigy would not have lived.He felt for her an absorbing affection that was almost a passion. She was hisgood angel, his protectress, his glimpse of Heaven. She had given him food whenhe was starving, and had believed in him when the world—the world offour—had looked coldly on him. He would have died for her, and, for loveof her, hoped for the vessel which should take her back to freedom and give himagain into bondage.

But the days stole on, and no vessel appeared. Each day they eagerly scannedthe watery horizon; each day they longed to behold the bowsprit of thereturning Ladybird glide past the jutting rock that shut out the view of theharbour—but in vain. Mrs. Vickers's illness increased, and the stock ofprovisions began to run short. Dawes talked of putting himself and Frere onhalf allowance. It was evident that, unless succour came in a few days, theymust starve.

Frere mooted all sorts of wild plans for obtaining food. He would make ajourney to the settlement, and, swimming the estuary, search if haply any casksof biscuit had been left behind in the hurry of departure. He would setspringes for the seagulls, and snare the pigeons at Liberty Point. But allthese proved impracticable, and with blank faces they watched their bag offlour grow smaller and smaller daily. Then the notion of escape was broached.Could they construct a raft? Impossible without nails or ropes. Could theybuild a boat? Equally impossible for the same reason. Could they raise a firesufficient to signal a ship? Easily; but what ship would come within reach ofthat doubly-desolate spot? Nothing could be done but wait for a vessel, whichwas sure to come for them sooner or later; and, growing weaker day by day, theywaited.

One morning Sylvia was sitting in the sun reading the "English History",which, by the accident of fright, she had brought with her on the night of themutiny. "Mr. Frere," said she, suddenly, "what is an alchemist?"

"A man who makes gold," was Frere's not very accurate definition.

"Do you know one?"

"No."

"Do you, Mr. Dawes?"

"I knew a man once who thought himself one."

"What! A man who made gold?"

"After a fashion."

"But did he make gold?" persisted Sylvia.

"No, not absolutely make it. But he was, in his worship of money, analchemist for all that."

"What became of him?"

"I don't know," said Dawes, with so much constraint in his tone that thechild instinctively turned the subject.

"Then, alchemy is a very old art?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did the Ancient Britons know it?"

"No, not as old as that!"

Sylvia suddenly gave a little scream. The remembrance of the evening whenshe read about the Ancient Britons to poor Bates came vividly into her mind,and though she had since re-read the passage that had then attracted herattention a hundred times, it had never before presented itself to her in itsfull significance. Hurriedly turning the well-thumbed leaves, she read aloudthe passage which had provoked remark:—

"'The Ancient Britons were little better than Barbarians. They painted theirbodies with Woad, and, seated in their light coracles of skin stretched uponslender wooden frames, must have presented a wild and savage appearance.'"

"A coracle! That's a boat! Can't we make a coracle, Mr. Dawes?"

CHAPTER XIII. WHAT THE SEAWEED SUGGESTED.

The question gave the marooned party new hopes. Maurice Frere, with hisusual impetuosity, declared that the project was a most feasible one, andwondered—as such men will wonder—that it had never occurred to himbefore. "It's the simplest thing in the world!" he cried. "Sylvia, you havesaved us!" But upon taking the matter into more earnest consideration, itbecame apparent that they were as yet a long way from the realization of theirhopes. To make a coracle of skins seemed sufficiently easy, but how to obtainthe skins! The one miserable hide of the unlucky she-goat was utterlyinadequate for the purpose. Sylvia—her face beaming with the hope ofescape, and with delight at having been the means of suggestingit—watched narrowly the countenance of Rufus Dawes, but she marked noanswering gleam of joy in those eyes. "Can't it be done, Mr. Dawes?" she asked,trembling for the reply.

The convict knitted his brows gloomily.

"Come, Dawes!" cried Frere, forgetting his enmity for an instant in theflash of new hope, "can't you suggest something?"

Rufus Dawes, thus appealed to as the acknowledged Head of the littlesociety, felt a pleasant thrill of self-satisfaction. "I don't know," he said."I must think of it. It looks easy, and yet—" He paused as something inthe water caught his eye. It was a mass of bladdery seaweed that the returningtide was wafting slowly to the shore. This object, which would have passedunnoticed at any other time, suggested to Rufus Dawes a new idea. "Yes," headded slowly, with a change of tone, "it may be done. I think I can see myway."

The others preserved a respectful silence until he should speak again. "Howfar do you think it is across the bay?" he asked of Frere.

"What, to Sarah Island?"

"No, to the Pilot Station."

"About four miles."

The convict sighed. "Too far to swim now, though I might have done it once.But this sort of life weakens a man. It must be done after all."

"What are you going to do?" asked Frere.

"To kill the goat."

Sylvia uttered a little cry; she had become fond of her dumb companion."Kill Nanny! Oh, Mr. Dawes! What for?"

"I am going to make a boat for you," he said, "and I want hides, and thread,and tallow."

A few weeks back Maurice Frere would have laughed at such a sentence, but hehad begun now to comprehend that this escaped convict was not a man to belaughed at, and though he detested him for his superiority, he could not butadmit that he was superior.

"You can't get more than one hide off a goat, man?" he said, with aninquiring tone in his voice—as though it was just possible that such amarvellous being as Dawes could get a second hide, by virtue of some secretprocess known only to himself.

"I am going to catch other goats." "Where?"

"At the Pilot Station."

"But how are you going to get there?"

"Float across. Come, there is not time for questioning! Go and cut down somesaplings, and let us begin!"

The lieutenant-master looked at the convict prisoner with astonishment, andthen gave way to the power of knowledge, and did as he was ordered. Beforesundown that evening the carcase of poor Nanny, broken into various mostunbutcherly fragments, was hanging on the nearest tree; and Frere, returningwith as many young saplings as he could drag together, found Rufus Dawesengaged in a curious occupation. He had killed the goat, and having cut off itshead close under the jaws, and its legs at the knee-joint, had extracted thecarcase through a slit made in the lower portion of the belly, which slit hehad now sewn together with string. This proceeding gave him a rough bag, and hewas busily engaged in filling this bag with such coarse grass as he couldcollect. Frere observed, also, that the fat of the animal was carefullypreserved, and the intestines had been placed in a pool of water to soak.

The convict, however, declined to give information as to what he intended todo. "It's my own notion," he said. "Let me alone. I may make a failure of it."Frere, on being pressed by Sylvia, affected to know all about the scheme, butto impose silence on himself. He was galled to think that a convict brainshould contain a mystery which he might not share.

On the next day, by Rufus Dawes's direction, Frere cut down some rushes thatgrew about a mile from the camping ground, and brought them in on his back.This took him nearly half a day to accomplish. Short rations were beginning totell upon his physical powers. The convict, on the other hand, trained by awoeful experience in the Boats to endurance of hardship, was slowly recoveringhis original strength.

"What are they for?" asked Frere, as he flung the bundles down. His mastercondescended to reply. "To make a float."

"Well?"

The other shrugged his broad shoulders. "You are very dull, Mr. Frere. I amgoing to swim over to the Pilot Station, and catch some of those goats. I canget across on the stuffed skin, but I must float them back on the reeds."

"How the doose do you mean to catch 'em?" asked Frere, wiping the sweat fromhis brow.

The convict motioned to him to approach. He did so, and saw that hiscompanion was cleaning the intestines of the goat. The outer membrane havingbeen peeled off, Rufus Dawes was turning the gut inside out. This he did byturning up a short piece of it, as though it were a coat-sleeve, and dippingthe turned-up cuff into a pool of water. The weight of the water pressingbetween the cuff and the rest of the gut, bore down a further portion; and so,by repeated dippings, the whole length was turned inside out. The innermembrane having been scraped away, there remained a fine transparent tube,which was tightly twisted, and set to dry in the sun.

"There is the catgut for the noose," said Dawes. "I learnt that trick at thesettlement. Now come here."

Frere, following, saw that a fire had been made between two stones, and thatthe kettle was partly sunk in the ground near it. On approaching the kettle, hefound it full of smooth pebbles.

"Take out those stones," said Dawes.

Frere obeyed, and saw at the bottom of the kettle a quantity of sparklingwhite powder, and the sides of the vessel crusted with the same material.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Salt."

"How did you get it?"

"I filled the kettle with sea-water, and then, heating those pebbles red-hotin the fire, dropped them into it. We could have caught the steam in a clothand wrung out fresh water had we wished to do so. But, thank God, we haveplenty."

Frere started. "Did you learn that at the settlement, too?" he asked.

Rufus Dawes laughed, with a sort of bitterness in his tones. "Do you think Ihave been at 'the settlement' all my life? The thing is very simple, it ismerely evaporation."

Frere burst out in sudden, fretful admiration: "What a fellow you are,Dawes! What are you—I mean, what have you been?"

A triumphant light came into the other's face, and for the instant he seemedabout to make some startling revelation. But the light faded, and he checkedhimself with a gesture of pain.

"I am a convict. Never mind what I have been. A sailor, a shipbuilder,prodigal, vagabond—what does it matter? It won't alter my fate, willit?"

"If we get safely back," says Frere, "I'll ask for a free pardon for you.You deserve it."

"Come," returned Dawes, with a discordant laugh. "Let us wait until we getback."

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't want favour at your hands," he said, with a return of the oldfierceness. "Let us get to work. Bring up the rushes here, and tie them with afishing line."

At this instant Sylvia came up. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dawes. Hard at work?Oh! what's this in the kettle?" The voice of the child acted like a charm uponRufus Dawes. He smiled quite cheerfully.

"Salt, miss. I am going to catch the goats with that."

"Catch the goats! How? Put it on their tails?" she cried merrily.

"Goats are fond of salt, and when I get over to the Pilot Station I shallset traps for them baited with this salt. When they come to lick it, I shallhave a noose of catgut ready to catch them—do you understand?"

"But how will you get across?"

"You will see to-morrow."

CHAPTER XIV. A WONDERFUL DAY'S WORK.

The next morning Rufus Dawes was stirring by daylight. He first got hiscatgut wound upon a piece of stick, and then, having moved his frail floatsalongside the little rock that served as a pier, he took a fishing line and alarger piece of stick, and proceeded to draw a diagram on the sand. Thisdiagram when completed represented a rude outline of a punt, eight feet longand three broad. At certain distances were eight points—four on eachside—into which small willow rods were driven. He then awoke Frere andshowed the diagram to him.

"Get eight stakes of celery-top pine," he said. "You can burn them where youcannot cut them, and drive a stake into the place of each of these willowwands. When you have done that, collect as many willows as you can get. I shallnot be back until tonight. Now give me a hand with the floats."

Frere, coming to the pier, saw Dawes strip himself, and piling his clothesupon the stuffed goat-skin, stretch himself upon the reed bundles, and,paddling with his hands, push off from the shore. The clothes floated high anddry, but the reeds, depressed by the weight of the body, sank so that the headof the convict alone appeared above water. In this fashion he gained the middleof the current, and the out-going tide swept him down towards the mouth of theharbour.

Frere, sulkily admiring, went back to prepare the breakfast—they wereon half rations now, Dawes having forbidden the slaughtered goat to be eaten,lest his expedition should prove unsuccessful—wondering at the chancewhich had thrown this convict in his way. "Parsons would call it 'a specialprovidence,'" he said to himself. "For if it hadn't been for him, we shouldnever have got thus far. If his 'boat' succeeds, we're all right, I suppose.He's a clever dog. I wonder who he is." His training as a master of convictsmade him think how dangerous such a man would be on a convict station. It wouldbe difficult to keep a fellow of such resources. "They'll have to look prettysharp after him if they ever get him back," he thought. "I'll have a fine taleto tell of his ingenuity." The conversation of the previous day occurred tohim. "I promised to ask for a free pardon. He wouldn't have it, though. Tooproud to accept it at my hands! Wait until we get back. I'll teach him hisplace; for, after all, it is his own liberty that he is working for as well asmine—I mean ours." Then a thought came into his head that was in everyway worthy of him. "Suppose we took the boat, and left him behind!" The notionseemed so ludicrously wicked that he laughed involuntarily.

"What is it, Mr. Frere?"

"Oh, it's you, Sylvia, is it? Ha, ha, ha! I was thinking ofsomething—something funny."

"Indeed," said Sylvia, "I am glad of that. Where's Mr. Dawes?"

Frere was displeased at the interest with which she asked the question.

"You are always thinking of that fellow. It's Dawes, Dawes, Dawes all daylong. He has gone."

"Oh!" with a sorrowful accent. "Mamma wants to see him."

"What about?" says Frere roughly. "Mamma is ill, Mr. Frere."

"Dawes isn't a doctor. What's the matter with her?"

"She is worse than she was yesterday. I don't know what is the matter."

Frere, somewhat alarmed, strode over to the little cavern.

The "lady of the Commandant" was in a strange plight. The cavern was lofty,but narrow. In shape it was three-cornered, having two sides open to the wind.The ingenuity of Rufus Dawes had closed these sides with wicker-work and clay,and a sort of door of interlaced brushwood hung at one of them. Frere pushedopen this door and entered. The poor woman was lying on a bed of rushes strewnover young brushwood, and was moaning feebly. From the first she had felt theprivation to which she was subjected most keenly, and the mental anxiety fromwhich she suffered increased her physical debility. The exhaustion andlassitude to which she had partially succumbed soon after Dawes's arrival, hadnow completely overcome her, and she was unable to rise.

"Cheer up, ma'am," said Maurice, with an assumption of heartiness. "It willbe all right in a day or two."

"Is it you? I sent for Mr. Dawes."

"He is away just now. I am making a boat. Did not Sylvia tell you?"

"She told me that he was making one."

"Well, I—that is, we—are making it. He will be back againtonight. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thank you. I only wanted to know how he was getting on. I must gosoon—if I am to go. Thank you, Mr. Frere. I am much obliged to you. Thisis a—he-e—dreadful place to have visitors, isn't it?"

"Never mind," said Frere, again, "you will be back in Hobart Town in a fewdays now. We are sure to get picked up by a ship. But you must cheer up. Havesome tea or something."

"No, thank you—I don't feel well enough to eat. I am tired."

Sylvia began to cry.

"Don't cry, dear. I shall be better by and by. Oh, I wish Mr. Dawes wasback."

Maurice Frere went out indignant. This "Mr." Dawes was everybody, it seemed,and he was nobody. Let them wait a little. All that day, working hard to carryout the convict's directions, he meditated a thousand plans by which he couldturn the tables. He would accuse Dawes of violence. He would demand that heshould be taken back as an "absconder". He would insist that the law shouldtake its course, and that the "death" which was the doom of all who were caughtin the act of escape from a penal settlement should be enforced. Yet if theygot safe to land, the marvellous courage and ingenuity of the prisoner wouldtell strongly in his favour. The woman and child would bear witness to histenderness and skill, and plead for him. As he had said, the convict deserved apardon. The mean, bad man, burning with wounded vanity and undefined jealousy,waited for some method to suggest itself, by which he might claim the credit ofthe escape, and snatch from the prisoner, who had dared to rival him, the lasthope of freedom.

Rufus Dawes, drifting with the current, had allowed himself to coast alongthe eastern side of the harbour until the Pilot Station appeared in view on theopposite shore. By this time it was nearly seven o'clock. He landed at a sandycove, and drawing up his raft, proceeded to unpack from among his garments apiece of damper. Having eaten sparingly, and dried himself in the sun, hereplaced the remains of his breakfast, and pushed his floats again into thewater. The Pilot Station lay some distance below him, on the opposite shore. Hehad purposely made his second start from a point which would give him thisadvantage of position; for had he attempted to paddle across at right angles,the strength of the current would have swept him out to sea. Weak as he was, heseveral times nearly lost his hold on the reeds. The clumsy bundle presentingtoo great a broadside to the stream, whirled round and round, and was once ortwice nearly sucked under. At length, however, breathless and exhausted, hegained the opposite bank, half a mile below the point he had attempted to make,and carrying his floats out of reach of the tide, made off across the hill tothe Pilot Station.

Arrived there about midday, he set to work to lay his snares. The goats,with whose hides he hoped to cover the coracle, were sufficiently numerous andtame to encourage him to use every exertion. He carefully examined the tracksof the animals, and found that they converged to one point—the track tothe nearest water. With much labour he cut down bushes, so as to mask theapproach to the waterhole on all sides save where these tracks immediatelyconjoined. Close to the water, and at unequal distances along the varioustracks, he scattered the salt he had obtained by his rude distillation ofsea-water. Between this scattered salt and the points where he judged theanimals would be likely to approach, he set his traps, made after the followingmanner. He took several pliant branches of young trees, and having strippedthem of leaves and twigs, dug with his knife and the end of the rude paddle hehad made for the voyage across the inlet, a succession of holes, about a footdeep. At the thicker end of these saplings he fastened, by a piece of fishingline, a small cross-bar, which swung loosely, like the stick handle which aschoolboy fastens to the string of his pegtop. Forcing the ends of the saplingsthus prepared into the holes, he filled in and stamped down the earth allaround them. The saplings, thus anchored as it were by the cross-pieces ofstick, not only stood firm, but resisted all his efforts to withdraw them. Tothe thin ends of these saplings he bound tightly, into notches cut in the wood,and secured by a multiplicity of twisting, the catgut springes he had broughtfrom the camping ground. The saplings were then bent double, and the guttedends secured in the ground by the same means as that employed to fix the butts.This was the most difficult part of the business, for it was necessary todiscover precisely the amount of pressure that would hold the bent rod withoutallowing it to escape by reason of this elasticity, and which would yet "give"to a slight pull on the gut. After many failures, however, this happy mediumwas discovered; and Rufus Dawes, concealing his springes by means of twigs,smoothed the disturbed sand with a branch and retired to watch the effect ofhis labours. About two hours after he had gone, the goats came to drink. Therewere five goats and two kids, and they trotted calmly along the path to thewater. The watcher soon saw that his precautions had been in a manner wasted.The leading goat marched gravely into the springe, which, catching him roundhis neck, released the bent rod, and sprang him off his legs into the air. Heuttered a comical bleat, and then hung kicking. Rufus Dawes, though the successof the scheme was a matter of life and death, burst out laughing at the anticsof the beast. The other goats bounded off at this sudden elevation of theirleader, and three more were entrapped at a little distance. Rufus Dawes nowthought it time to secure his prize, though three of the springes were as yetunsprung. He ran down to the old goat, knife in hand, but before he could reachhim the barely-dried catgut gave way, and the old fellow, shaking his head withgrotesque dismay, made off at full speed. The others, however, were secured andkilled. The loss of the springe was not a serious one, for three traps remainedunsprung, and before sundown Rufus Dawes had caught four more goats. Removingwith care the catgut that had done such good service, he dragged the carcasesto the shore, and proceeded to pack them upon his floats. He discovered,however, that the weight was too great, and that the water, entering throughthe loops of the stitching in the hide, had so soaked the rush-grass as torender the floats no longer buoyant. He was compelled, therefore, to spend twohours in re-stuffing the skin with such material as he could find. Some lightand flock-like seaweed, which the action of the water had swathed after thefashion of haybands along the shore, formed an excellent substitute for grass,and, having bound his bundle of rushes lengthwise, with the goat-skin as acentre-piece, he succeeded in forming a sort of rude canoe, upon which thecarcases floated securely.

He had eaten nothing since the morning, and the violence of his exertionshad exhausted him. Still, sustained by the excitement of the task he had sethimself, he dismissed with fierce impatience the thought of rest, and draggedhis weary limbs along the sand, endeavouring to kill fatigue by furtherexertion. The tide was now running in, and he knew it was imperative that heshould regain the further shore while the current was in his favour. To crossfrom the Pilot Station at low water was impossible. If he waited until the ebb,he must spend another day on the shore, and he could not afford to lose anhour. Cutting a long sapling, he fastened to one end of it the floating bundle,and thus guided it to a spot where the beach shelved abruptly into deep water.It was a clear night, and the risen moon large and low, flung a rippling streakof silver across the sea. On the other side of the bay all was bathed in aviolet haze, which veiled the inlet from which he had started in the morning.The fire of the exiles, hidden behind a point of rock, cast a red glow into theair. The ocean breakers rolled in upon the cliffs outside the bar, with ahoarse and threatening murmur; and the rising tide rippled and lapped withtreacherous melody along the sand. He touched the chill water and drew back.For an instant he determined to wait until the beams of morning should illuminethat beautiful but treacherous sea, and then the thought of the helpless child,who was, without doubt, waiting and watching for him on the shore, gave newstrength to his wearied frame; and fixing his eyes on the glow that, hoveringabove the dark tree-line, marked her presence, he pushed the raft before himout into the sea. The reeds sustained him bravely, but the strength of thecurrent sucked him underneath the water, and for several seconds he feared thathe should be compelled to let go his hold. But his muscles, steeled in the slowfire of convict-labour, withstood this last strain upon them, and,half-suffocated, with bursting chest and paralysed fingers, he preserved hisposition, until the mass, getting out of the eddies along the shore-line,drifted steadily down the silvery track that led to the settlement. After a fewmoments' rest, he set his teeth, and urged his strange canoe towards the shore.Paddling and pushing, he gradually edged it towards the fire-light; and atlast, just when his stiffened limbs refused to obey the impulse of his will,and he began to drift onwards with the onward tide, he felt his feet strikefirm ground. Opening his eyes—closed in the desperation of his lastefforts—he found himself safe under the lee of the rugged promontorywhich hid the fire. It seemed that the waves, tired of persecuting him, had,with disdainful pity, cast him ashore at the goal of his hopes. Looking back,he for the first time realized the frightful peril he had escaped, andshuddered. To this shudder succeeded a thrill of triumph. "Why had he stayed solong, when escape was so easy?" Dragging the carcases above high-water mark, herounded the little promontory and made for the fire. The recollection of thenight when he had first approached it came upon him, and increased hisexultation. How different a man was he now from then! Passing up the sand, hesaw the stakes which he had directed Frere to cut whiten in the moonshine. Hisofficer worked for him! In his own brain alone lay the secret of escape!He—Rufus Dawes—the scarred, degraded "prisoner", could alone getthese three beings back to civilization. Did he refuse to aid them, they wouldfor ever remain in that prison, where he had so long suffered. The tables wereturned—he had become a gaoler! He had gained the fire before the solitarywatcher there heard his footsteps, and spread his hands to the blaze insilence. He felt as Frere would have felt, had their positions been reversed,disdainful of the man who had stopped at home.

Frere, starting, cried, "It is you! Have you succeeded?"

Rufus Dawes nodded.

"What! Did you catch them?"

"There are four carcases down by the rocks. You can have meat for breakfastto-morrow!"

The child, at the sound of the voice, came running down from the hut. "Oh,Mr. Dawes! I am so glad! We were beginning to despair—mamma and I."

Dawes snatched her from the ground, and bursting into a joyous laugh, swungher into the air. "Tell me," he cried, holding up the child with two drippingarms above him, "what you will do for me if I bring you and mamma safe homeagain?"

"Give you a free pardon," says Sylvia, "and papa shall make you hisservant!" Frere burst out laughing at this reply, and Dawes, with a chokingsensation in his throat, put the child upon the ground and walked away.

This was in truth all he could hope for. All his scheming, all his courage,all his peril, would but result in the patronage of a great man like MajorVickers. His heart, big with love, with self-denial, and with hopes of a fairfuture, would have this flattering unction laid to it. He had performed aprodigy of skill and daring, and for his reward he was to be made a servant tothe creatures he had protected. Yet what more could a convict expect? Sylviasaw how deeply her unconscious hand had driven the iron, and ran up to the manshe had wounded. "And, Mr. Dawes, remember that I shall love you always." Theconvict, however, his momentary excitement over, motioned her away; and she sawhim stretch himself wearily under the shadow of a rock.

CHAPTER XV. THE CORACLE.

In the morning, however, Rufus Dawes was first at work, and made no allusionto the scene of the previous evening. He had already skinned one of the goats,and he directed Frere to set to work upon another. "Cut down the rump to thehock, and down the brisket to the knee," he said. "I want the hides as squareas possible." By dint of hard work they got the four goats skinned, and theentrails cleaned ready for twisting, by breakfast time; and having broiled someof the flesh, made a hearty meal. Mrs. Vickers being no better, Dawes went tosee her, and seemed to have made friends again with Sylvia, for he came out ofthe hut with the child's hand in his. Frere, who was cutting the meat in longstrips to dry in the sun, saw this, and it added fresh fuel to the fire in hisunreasonable envy and jealousy. However, he said nothing, for his enemy had notyet shown him how the boat was to be made. Before midday, however, he was apartner in the secret, which, after all, was a very simple one.

Rufus Dawes took two of the straightest and most tapered of the celery-toppines which Frere had cut on the previous day, and lashed them tightlytogether, with the butts outwards. He thus produced a spliced stick abouttwelve feet long. About two feet from either end he notched the young treeuntil he could bend the extremities upwards; and having so bent them, hesecured the bent portions in their places by means of lashings of raw hide. Thespliced trees now presented a rude outline of the section of a boat, having thestem, keel, and stern all in one piece. This having been placed lengthwisebetween the stakes, four other poles, notched in two places, were lashed fromstake to stake, running crosswise to the keel, and forming the knees. Foursaplings were now bent from end to end of the upturned portions of the keelthat represented stem and stern. Two of these four were placed above, asgunwales; two below as bottom rails. At each intersection the sticks werelashed firmly with fishing line. The whole framework being complete, the stakeswere drawn out, and there lay upon the ground the skeleton of a boat eight feetlong by three broad.

Frere, whose hands were blistered and sore, would fain have rested; but theconvict would not hear of it. "Let us finish," he said regardless of his ownfatigue; "the skins will be dry if we stop."

"I can work no more," says Frere sulkily; "I can't stand. You've got musclesof iron, I suppose. I haven't."

"They made me work when I couldn't stand, Maurice Frere. It is wonderfulwhat spirit the cat gives a man. There's nothing like work to get rid of achingmuscles—so they used to tell me."

"Well, what's to be done now?"

"Cover the boat. There, you can set the fat to melt, and sew these hidestogether. Two and two, do you see? and then sew the pair at the necks. There isplenty of catgut yonder."

"Don't talk to me as if I was a dog!" says Frere suddenly. "Be civil, can'tyou."

But the other, busily trimming and cutting at the projecting pieces ofsapling, made no reply. It is possible that he thought the fatigued lieutenantbeneath his notice. About an hour before sundown the hides were ready, andRufus Dawes, having in the meantime interlaced the ribs of the skeleton withwattles, stretched the skins over it, with the hairy side inwards. Along theedges of this covering he bored holes at intervals, and passing through theseholes thongs of twisted skin, he drew the whole to the top rail of the boat.One last precaution remained. Dipping the pannikin into the melted tallow, heplentifully anointed the seams of the sewn skins. The boat, thus turnedtopsy-turvy, looked like a huge walnut shell covered with red and reeking hide,or the skull of some Titan who had been scalped. "There!" cried Rufus Dawes,triumphant. "Twelve hours in the sun to tighten the hides, and she'll swim likea duck."

The next day was spent in minor preparations. The jerked goat-meat waspacked securely into as small a compass as possible. The rum barrel was filledwith water, and water bags were improvised out of portions of the intestines ofthe goats. Rufus Dawes, having filled these last with water, ran a woodenskewer through their mouths, and twisted it tight, tourniquet fashion. He alsostripped cylindrical pieces of bark, and having sewn each cylinder at the side,fitted to it a bottom of the same material, and caulked the seams with gum andpine-tree resin. Thus four tolerable buckets were obtained. One goatskin yetremained, and out of that it was determined to make a sail. "The currents arestrong," said Rufus Dawes, "and we shall not be able to row far with such oarsas we have got. If we get a breeze it may save our lives." It was impossible to"step" a mast in the frail basket structure, but this difficulty was overcomeby a simple contrivance. From thwart to thwart two poles were bound, and themast, lashed between these poles with thongs of raw hide, was secured byshrouds of twisted fishing line running fore and aft. Sheets of bark wereplaced at the bottom of the craft, and made a safe flooring. It was late in theafternoon on the fourth day when these preparations were completed, and it wasdecided that on the morrow they should adventure the journey. "We will coastdown to the Bar," said Rufus Dawes, "and wait for the slack of the tide. I cando no more now."

Sylvia, who had seated herself on a rock at a little distance, called tothem. Her strength was restored by the fresh meat, and her childish spirits hadrisen with the hope of safety. The mercurial little creature had wreathedseaweed about her head, and holding in her hand a long twig decorated with atuft of leaves to represent a wand, she personified one of the heroines of herbooks.

"I am the Queen of the Island," she said merrily, "and you are my obedientsubjects. Pray, Sir Eglamour, is the boat ready?"

"It is, your Majesty," said poor Dawes.

"Then we will see it. Come, walk in front of me. I won't ask you to rub yournose upon the ground, like Man Friday, because that would be uncomfortable. Mr.Frere, you don't play?"

"Oh, yes!" says Frere, unable to withstand the charming pout thataccompanied the words. "I'll play. What am I to do?"

"You must walk on this side, and be respectful. Of course it is onlyPretend, you know," she added, with a quick consciousness of Frere's conceit."Now then, the Queen goes down to the Seashore surrounded by her Nymphs! Thereis no occasion to laugh, Mr. Frere. Of course, Nymphs are very different fromyou, but then we can't help that."

Marching in this pathetically ridiculous fashion across the sand, theyhalted at the coracle. "So that is the boat!" says the Queen, fairly surprisedout of her assumption of dignity. "You are a Wonderful Man, Mr. Dawes!"

Rufus Dawes smiled sadly. "It is very simple."

"Do you call this simple?" says Frere, who in the general joy had shaken offa portion of his sulkiness. "By George, I don't! This is ship-building with avengeance, this is. There's no scheming about this—it's all sheer hardwork."

"Yes!" echoed Sylvia, "sheer hard work—sheer hard work by good Mr.Dawes!" And she began to sing a childish chant of triumph, drawing lines andletters in the sand the while, with the sceptre of the Queen.

"Good Mr. Dawes! Good Mr. Dawes! This is the work of Good Mr. Dawes!"

Maurice could not resist a sneer.

"See-saw, Margery Daw, Sold her bed, and lay upon straw!" said he.

"Good Mr. Dawes!" repeated Sylvia. "Good Mr. Dawes! Why shouldn't I say it?You are disagreeable, sir. I won't play with you any more," and she went offalong the sand.

"Poor little child," said Rufus Dawes. "You speak too harshly to her."

Frere—now that the boat was made—had regained hisself-confidence. Civilization seemed now brought sufficiently close to him towarrant his assuming the position of authority to which his social positionentitled him. "One would think that a boat had never been built before to hearher talk," he said. "If this washing-basket had been one of my old uncle'sthree-deckers, she couldn't have said much more. By the Lord!" he added, with acoarse laugh, "I ought to have a natural talent for ship-building; for if theold villain hadn't died when he did, I should have been a ship-buildermyself."

Rufus Dawes turned his back at the word "died", and busied himself with thefastenings of the hides. Could the other have seen his face, he would have beenstruck by its sudden pallor.

"Ah!" continued Frere, half to himself, and half to his companion, "that's asum of money to lose, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" asked the convict, without turning his face.

"Mean! Why, my good fellow, I should have been left a quarter of a millionof money, but the old hunks who was going to give it to me died before he couldalter his will, and every shilling went to a scapegrace son, who hadn't beennear the old man for years. That's the way of the world, isn't it?"

Rufus Dawes, still keeping his face away, caught his breath as if inastonishment, and then, recovering himself, he said in a harsh voice, "Afortunate fellow—that son!"

"Fortunate!" cries Frere, with another oath. "Oh yes, he was fortunate! Hewas burnt to death in the Hydaspes, and never heard of his luck. His mother hasgot the money, though. I never saw a shilling of it." And then, seeminglydispleased with himself for having allowed his tongue to get the better of hisdignity, he walked away to the fire, musing, doubtless, on the differencebetween Maurice Frere, with a quarter of a million, disporting himself in thebest society that could be procured, with command of dog-carts, prize-fighters,and gameco*cks galore; and Maurice Frere, a penniless lieutenant, marooned onthe barren coast of Macquarie Harbour, and acting as boat-builder to a runawayconvict.

Rufus Dawes was also lost in reverie. He leant upon the gunwale of themuch-vaunted boat, and his eyes were fixed upon the sea, weltering golden inthe sunset, but it was evident that he saw nothing of the scene before him.Struck dumb by the sudden intelligence of his fortune, his imagination escapedfrom his control, and fled away to those scenes which he had striven so vainlyto forget. He was looking far away—across the glittering harbour and thewide sea beyond it—looking at the old house at Hampstead, with itswell-remembered gloomy garden. He pictured himself escaped from this presentperil, and freed from the sordid thraldom which so long had held him. He sawhimself returning, with some plausible story of his wanderings, to takepossession of the wealth which was his—saw himself living once more,rich, free, and respected, in the world from which he had been so long anexile. He saw his mother's sweet pale face, the light of a happy home circle.He saw himself—received with tears of joy and marvellingaffection—entering into this home circle as one risen from the dead. Anew life opened radiant before him, and he was lost in the contemplation of hisown happiness.

So absorbed was he that he did not hear the light footstep of the childacross the sand. Mrs. Vickers, having been told of the success which hadcrowned the convict's efforts, had overcome her weakness so far as to hobbledown the beach to the boat, and now, heralded by Sylvia, approached, leaning onthe arm of Maurice Frere.

"Mamma has come to see the boat, Mr. Dawes!" cries Sylvia, but Dawes did nothear.

The child reiterated her words, but still the silent figure did notreply.

"Mr. Dawes!" she cried again, and pulled him by the coat-sleeve.

The touch aroused him, and looking down, he saw the pretty, thin faceupturned to his. Scarcely conscious of what he did, and still following out theimagining which made him free, wealthy, and respected, he caught the littlecreature in his arms—as he might have caught his own daughter—andkissed her. Sylvia said nothing; but Mr. Frere—arrived, by his chain ofreasoning, at quite another conclusion as to the state of affairs—wasastonished at the presumption of the man. The lieutenant regarded himself asalready reinstated in his old position, and with Mrs. Vickers on his arm,reproved the apparent insolence of the convict as freely as he would have donehad they both been at his own little kingdom of Maria Island. "You insolentbeggar!" he cried. "Do you dare! Keep your place, sir!"

The sentence recalled Rufus Dawes to reality. His place was that of aconvict. What business had he with tenderness for the daughter of his master?Yet, after all he had done, and proposed to do, this harsh judgment upon himseemed cruel. He saw the two looking at the boat he had built. He marked theflush of hope on the cheek of the poor lady, and the full-blown authority thatalready hardened the eye of Maurice Frere, and all at once he understood theresult of what he had done. He had, by his own act, given himself again tobondage. As long as escape was impracticable, he had been useful, and evenpowerful. Now he had pointed out the way of escape, he had sunk into the beastof burden once again. In the desert he was "Mr." Dawes, the saviour; incivilized life he would become once more Rufus Dawes, the ruffian, theprisoner, the absconder. He stood mute, and let Frere point out the excellencesof the craft in silence; and then, feeling that the few words of thanks utteredby the lady were chilled by her consciousness of the ill-advised freedom he hadtaken with the child, he turned on his heel, and strode up into the bush.

"A queer fellow," said Frere, as Mrs. Vickers followed the retreating figurewith her eyes. "Always in an ill temper." "Poor man! He has behaved very kindlyto us," said Mrs. Vickers. Yet even she felt the change of circ*mstance, andknew that, without any reason she could name, her blind trust and hope in theconvict who had saved their lives had been transformed into a patronizingkindliness which was quite foreign to esteem or affection.

"Come, let us have some supper," says Frere. "The last we shall eat here, Ihope. He will come back when his fit of sulks is over."

But he did not come back, and, after a few expressions of wonder at hisabsence, Mrs. Vickers and her daughter, rapt in the hopes and fears of themorrow, almost forgot that he had left them. With marvellous credulity theylooked upon the terrible stake they were about to play for as already won. Thepossession of the boat seemed to them so wonderful, that the perils of thevoyage they were to make in it were altogether lost sight of. As for MauriceFrere, he was rejoiced that the convict was out of the way. He wished that hewas out of the way altogether.

CHAPTER XVI. THE WRITING ON THE SAND.

Having got out of eye-shot of the ungrateful creatures he had befriended,Rufus Dawes threw himself upon the ground in an agony of mingled rage andregret. For the first time for six years he had tasted the happiness of doinggood, the delight of self-abnegation. For the first time for six years he hadbroken through the selfish misanthropy he had taught himself. And this was hisreward! He had held his temper in check, in order that it might not offendothers. He had banished the galling memory of his degradation, lest haply someshadow of it might seem to fall upon the fair child whose lot had been sostrangely cast with his. He had stifled the agony he suffered, lest itsexpression should give pain to those who seemed to feel for him. He hadforborne retaliation, when retaliation would have been most sweet. Having allthese years waited and watched for a chance to strike his persecutors, he hadheld his hand now that an unlooked-for accident had placed the weapon ofdestruction in his grasp. He had risked his life, forgone his enmities, almostchanged his nature—and his reward was cold looks and harsh words, so soonas his skill had paved the way to freedom. This knowledge coming upon him whilethe thrill of exultation at the astounding news of his riches yet vibrated inhis brain, made him grind his teeth with rage at his own hard fate. Bound bythe purest and holiest of ties—the affection of a son to hismother—he had condemned himself to social death, rather than buy hisliberty and life by a revelation which would shame the gentle creature whom heloved. By a strange series of accidents, fortune had assisted him to maintainthe deception he had practised. His cousin had not recognized him. The veryship in which he was believed to have sailed had been lost with every soul onboard. His identity had been completely destroyed—no link remained whichcould connect Rufus Dawes, the convict, with Richard Devine, the vanished heirto the wealth of the dead ship-builder.

Oh, if he had only known! If, while in the gloomy prison, distracted by athousand fears, and weighed down by crushing evidence of circ*mstance, he hadbut guessed that death had stepped between Sir Richard and his vengeance, hemight have spared himself the sacrifice he had made. He had been tried andcondemned as a nameless sailor, who could call no witnesses in his defence, andgive no particulars as to his previous history. It was clear to him now that hemight have adhered to his statement of ignorance concerning the murder, lockedin his breast the name of the murderer, and have yet been free. Judges arejust, but popular opinion is powerful, and it was not impossible that RichardDevine, the millionaire, would have escaped the fate which had overtaken RufusDawes, the sailor. Into his calculations in the prison—when, half-crazedwith love, with terror, and despair, he had counted up his chances oflife—the wild supposition that he had even then inherited the wealth ofthe father who had disowned him, had never entered. The knowledge of that factwould have altered the whole current of his life, and he learnt it for thefirst time now—too late. Now, lying prone upon the sand; now, wanderingaimlessly up and down among the stunted trees that bristled white beneath themist-barred moon; now, sitting—as he had sat in the prison longago—with the head gripped hard between his hands, swaying his body to andfro, he thought out the frightful problem of his bitter life. Of little use wasthe heritage that he had gained. A convict-absconder, whose hands were hardwith menial service, and whose back was scarred with the lash, could never bereceived among the gently nurtured. Let him lay claim to his name and rights,what then? He was a convicted felon, and his name and rights had been takenfrom him by the law. Let him go and tell Maurice Frere that he was his lostcousin. He would be laughed at. Let him proclaim aloud his birth and innocence,and the convict-sheds would grin, and the convict overseer set him to harderlabour. Let him even, by dint of reiteration, get his wild story believed, whatwould happen? If it was heard in England—after the lapse of years,perhaps—that a convict in the chain-gang in Macquarie Harbour—a manheld to be a murderer, and whose convict career was one long record of mutinyand punishment—claimed to be the heir to an English fortune, and to ownthe right to dispossess staid and worthy English folk of their rank andstation, with what feeling would the announcement be received? Certainly notwith a desire to redeem this ruffian from his bonds and place him in thehonoured seat of his dead father. Such intelligence would be regarded as acalamity, an unhappy blot upon a fair reputation, a disgrace to an honoured andunsullied name. Let him succeed, let him return again to the mother who had bythis time become reconciled, in a measure, to his loss; he would, at the best,be to her a living shame, scarcely less degrading than that which she haddreaded.

But success was almost impossible. He did not dare to retrace his stepsthrough the hideous labyrinth into which he had plunged. Was he to show hisscarred shoulders as a proof that he was a gentleman and an innocent man? Washe to relate the nameless infamies of Macquarie Harbour as a proof that he wasentitled to receive the hospitalities of the generous, and to sit, a respectedguest, at the tables of men of refinement? Was he to quote the horrible slangof the prison-ship, and retail the filthy jests of the chain-gang and thehulks, as a proof that he was a fit companion for pure-minded women andinnocent children? Suppose even that he could conceal the name of the realcriminal, and show himself guiltless of the crime for which he had beencondemned, all the wealth in the world could not buy back that blissfulignorance of evil which had once been his. All the wealth in the world couldnot purchase the self-respect which had been cut out of him by the lash, orbanish from his brain the memory of his degradation.

For hours this agony of thought racked him. He cried out as though withphysical pain, and then lay in a stupor, exhausted with actual physicalsuffering. It was hopeless to think of freedom and of honour. Let him keepsilence, and pursue the life fate had marked out for him. He would return tobondage. The law would claim him as an absconder, and would mete out to himsuch punishment as was fitting. Perhaps he might escape severest punishment, asa reward for his exertions in saving the child. He might consider himselffortunate if such was permitted to him. Fortunate! Suppose he did not go backat all, but wandered away into the wilderness and died? Better death than sucha doom as his. Yet need he die? He had caught goats, he could catch fish. Hecould build a hut. In here was, perchance, at the deserted settlement someremnant of seed corn that, planted, would give him bread. He had built a boat,he had made an oven, he had fenced in a hut. Surely he could contrive to livealone savage and free. Alone! He had contrived all these marvels alone! Was notthe boat he himself had built below upon the shore? Why not escape in her, andleave to their fate the miserable creatures who had treated him with suchingratitude?

The idea flashed into his brain, as though someone had spoken the words intohis ear. Twenty strides would place him in possession of the boat, and half anhour's drifting with the current would take him beyond pursuit. Once outsidethe Bar, he would make for the westward, in the hopes of falling in with somewhaler. He would doubtless meet with one before many days, and he was wellsupplied with provision and water in the meantime. A tale of shipwreck wouldsatisfy the sailors, and—he paused—he had forgotten that the ragswhich he wore would betray him. With an exclamation of despair, he started fromthe posture in which he was lying. He thrust out his hands to raise himself,and his fingers came in contact with something soft. He had been lying at thefoot of some loose stones that were piled cairnwise beside a low-growing bush;and the object that he had touched was protruding from beneath these stones. Hecaught it and dragged it forth. It was the shirt of poor Bates. With tremblinghands he tore away the stones, and pulled forth the rest of the garments. Theyseemed as though they had been left purposely for him. Heaven had sent him thevery disguise he needed.

The night had passed during his reverie, and the first faint streaks of dawnbegan to lighten in the sky. Haggard and pale, he rose to his feet, andscarcely daring to think about what he proposed to do, ran towards the boat. Ashe ran, however, the voice that he had heard encouraged him. "Your life is ofmore importance than theirs. They will die, but they have been ungrateful anddeserve death. You will escape out of this Hell, and return to the loving heartwho mourns you. You can do more good to mankind than by saving the lives ofthese people who despise you. Moreover, they may not die. They are sure to besent for. Think of what awaits you when you return—an abscondedconvict!"

He was within three feet of the boat, when he suddenly checked himself, andstood motionless, staring at the sand with as much horror as though he sawthere the Writing which foretold the doom of Belshazzar. He had come upon thesentence traced by Sylvia the evening before, and glittering in the low lightof the red sun suddenly risen from out the sea, it seemed to him that theletters had shaped themselves at his very feet,

"Good Mr. Dawes"! What a frightful reproach there was to him in that simplesentence! What a world of cowardice, baseness, and cruelty, had not thoseeleven letters opened to him! He heard the voice of the child who had nursedhim, calling on him to save her. He saw her at that instant standing betweenhim and the boat, as she had stood when she held out to him the loaf, on thenight of his return to the settlement.

He staggered to the cavern, and, seizing the sleeping Frere by the arm,shook him violently. "Awake! awake!" he cried, "and let us leave this place!"Frere, starting to his feet, looked at the white face and bloodshot eyes of thewretched man before him with blunt astonishment. "What's the matter with you,man?" he said. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

At the sound of his voice Rufus Dawes gave a long sigh, and drew his handacross his eyes.

"Come, Sylvia!" shouted Frere. "It's time to get up. I am ready to go!"

The sacrifice was complete. The convict turned away, and two greatglistening tears rolled down his rugged face, and fell upon the sand.

CHAPTER XVII. AT SEA.

An hour after sunrise, the frail boat, which was the last hope of these fourhuman beings, drifted with the outgoing current towards the mouth of theharbour. When first launched she had come nigh swamping, being overloaded, andit was found necessary to leave behind a great portion of the dried meat. Withwhat pangs this was done can be easily imagined, for each atom of food seemedto represent an hour of life. Yet there was no help for it. As Frere said, itwas "neck or nothing with them". They must get away at all hazards.

That evening they camped at the mouth of the Gates, Dawes being afraid torisk a passage until the slack of the tide, and about ten o'clock at nightadventured to cross the Bar. The night was lovely, and the sea calm. It seemedas though Providence had taken pity on them; for, notwithstanding theinsecurity of the craft and the violence of the breakers, the dreaded passagewas made with safety. Once, indeed, when they had just entered the surf, amighty wave, curling high above them, seemed about to overwhelm the frailstructure of skins and wickerwork; but Rufus Dawes, keeping the nose of theboat to the sea, and Frere baling with his hat, they succeeded in reaching deepwater. A great misfortune, however, occurred. Two of the bark buckets, left bysome unpardonable oversight uncleated, were washed overboard, and with themnearly a fifth of their scanty store of water. In the face of the greaterperil, the accident seemed trifling; and as, drenched and chilled, they gainedthe open sea, they could not but admit that fortune had almost miraculouslybefriended them.

They made tedious way with their rude oars; a light breeze from thenorth-west sprang up with the dawn, and, hoisting the goat-skin sail, theycrept along the coast. It was resolved that the two men should keep watch andwatch; and Frere for the second time enforced his authority by giving the firstwatch to Rufus Dawes. "I am tired," he said, "and shall sleep for a littlewhile."

Rufus Dawes, who had not slept for two nights, and who had done all theharder work, said nothing. He had suffered so much during the last two daysthat his senses were dulled to pain.

Frere slept until late in the afternoon, and, when he woke, found the boatstill tossing on the sea, and Sylvia and her mother both seasick. This seemedstrange to him. Sea-sickness appeared to be a malady which belonged exclusivelyto civilization. Moodily watching the great green waves which curledincessantly between him and the horizon, he marvelled to think how curiouslyevents had come about. A leaf had, as it were, been torn out of hisautobiography. It seemed a lifetime since he had done anything but moodily scanthe sea or shore. Yet, on the morning of leaving the settlement, he had countedthe notches on a calendar-stick he carried, and had been astonished to findthem but twenty-two in number. Taking out his knife, he cut two nicks in thewicker gunwale of the coracle. That brought him to twenty-four days. The mutinyhad taken place on the 13th of January; it was now the 6th of February."Surely," thought he, "the Ladybird might have returned by this time." Therewas no one to tell him that the Ladybird had been driven into Port Davey bystress of weather, and detained there for seventeen days.

That night the wind fell, and they had to take to their oars. Rowing allnight, they made but little progress, and Rufus Dawes suggested that theyshould put in to the shore and wait until the breeze sprang up. But, upongetting under the lee of a long line of basaltic rocks which rose abruptly outof the sea, they found the waves breaking furiously upon a horseshoe reef, sixor seven miles in length. There was nothing for it but to coast again. Theycoasted for two days, without a sign of a sail, and on the third day a greatwind broke upon them from the south-east, and drove them back thirty miles. Thecoracle began to leak, and required constant bailing. What was almost as bad,the rum cask, that held the best part of their water, had leaked also, and wasnow half empty. They caulked it, by cutting out the leak, and then plugging thehole with linen.

"It's lucky we ain't in the tropics," said Frere. Poor Mrs. Vickers, lyingin the bottom of the boat, wrapped in her wet shawl, and chilled to the bonewith the bitter wind, had not the heart to speak. Surely the stifling calm ofthe tropics could not be worse than this bleak and barren sea.

The position of the four poor creatures was now almost desperate. Mrs.Vickers, indeed, seemed completely prostrated; and it was evident that, unlesssome help came, she could not long survive the continued exposure to theweather. The child was in somewhat better case. Rufus Dawes had wrapped her inhis woollen shirt, and, unknown to Frere, had divided with her daily hisallowance of meat. She lay in his arms at night, and in the day crept by hisside for shelter and protection. As long as she was near him she felt safe.They spoke little to each other, but when Rufus Dawes felt the pressure of hertiny hand in his, or sustained the weight of her head upon his shoulder, healmost forgot the cold that froze him, and the hunger that gnawed him.

So two more days passed, and yet no sail. On the tenth day after theirdeparture from Macquarie Harbour they came to the end of their provisions. Thesalt water had spoiled the goat-meat, and soaked the bread into a nauseouspaste. The sea was still running high, and the wind, having veered to thenorth, was blowing with increased violence. The long low line of coast thatstretched upon their left hand was at times obscured by a blue mist. The waterwas the colour of mud, and the sky threatened rain. The wretched craft to whichthey had entrusted themselves was leaking in four places. If caught in one ofthe frequent storms which ravaged that iron-bound coast, she could not live anhour. The two men, wearied, hungry, and cold, almost hoped for the end to comequickly. To add to their distress, the child was seized with fever. She was hotand cold by turns, and in the intervals of moaning talked deliriously. RufusDawes, holding her in his arms, watched the suffering he was unable toalleviate with a savage despair at his heart. Was she to die after all?

So another day and night passed, and the eleventh morning saw the boat yetalive, rolling in the trough of the same deserted sea. The four exiles lay inher almost without breath.

All at once Dawes uttered a cry, and, seizing the sheet, put the clumsycraft about. "A sail! a sail!" he cried. "Do you not see her?"

Frere's hungry eyes ranged the dull water in vain.

"There is no sail, fool!" he said. "You mock us!"

The boat, no longer following the line of the coast, was running nearly duesouth, straight into the great Southern Ocean. Frere tried to wrest the thongfrom the hand of the convict, and bring the boat back to her course. "Are youmad?" he asked, in fretful terror, "to run us out to sea?"

"Sit down!" returned the other, with a menacing gesture, and staring acrossthe grey water. "I tell you I see a sail!"

Frere, overawed by the strange light which gleamed in the eyes of hiscompanion, shifted sulkily back to his place. "Have your own way," he said,"madman! It serves me right for putting off to sea in such a devil's craft asthis!"

After all, what did it matter? As well be drowned in mid-ocean as in sightof land.

The long day wore out, and no sail appeared. The wind freshened towardsevening, and the boat, plunging clumsily on the long brown waves, staggered asthough drunk with the water she had swallowed, for at one place near the bowsthe water ran in and out as through a slit in a wine skin. The coast hadaltogether disappeared, and the huge ocean—vast, stormy, andthreatening—heaved and hissed all around them. It seemed impossible thatthey should live until morning. But Rufus Dawes, with his eyes fixed on someobject visible alone to him, hugged the child in his arms, and drove thequivering coracle into the black waste of night and sea. To Frere, sittingsullenly in the bows, the aspect of this grim immovable figure, with itsback-blown hair and staring eyes, had in it something supernatural andhorrible. He began to think that privation and anxiety had driven the unhappyconvict mad.

Thinking and shuddering over his fate, he fell—as it seemed tohim—into a momentary sleep, in the midst of which someone called to him.He started up, with shaking knees and bristling hair. The day had broken, andthe dawn, in one long pale streak of sickly saffron, lay low on the left hand.Between this streak of saffron-coloured light and the bows of the boat gleamedfor an instant a white speck.

"A sail! a sail!" cried Rufus Dawes, a wild light gleaming in his eyes, anda strange tone vibrating in his voice. "Did I not tell you that I saw asail?"

Frere, utterly confounded, looked again, with his heart in his mouth, andagain did the white speck glimmer. For an instant he felt almost safe, and thena blanker despair than before fell upon him. From the distance at which shewas, it was impossible for the ship to sight the boat.

"They will never see us!" he cried. "Dawes—Dawes! Do you hear? Theywill never see us!"

Rufus Dawes started as if from a trance. Lashing the sheet to the pole whichserved as a gunwale, he laid the sleeping child by her mother, and tearing upthe strip of bark on which he had been sitting, moved to the bows of theboat.

"They will see this! Tear up that board! So! Now, place it thus across thebows. Hack off that sapling end! Now that dry twist of osier! Never mind theboat, man; we can afford to leave her now. Tear off that outer strip of hide.See, the wood beneath is dry! Quick—you are so slow."

"What are you going to do?" cried Frere, aghast, as the convict tore up allthe dry wood he could find, and heaped it on the sheet of bark placed on thebows.

"To make a fire! See!"

Frere began to comprehend. "I have three matches left," he said, fumbling,with trembling fingers, in his pocket. "I wrapped them in one of the leaves ofthe book to keep them dry."

The word "book" was a new inspiration. Rufus Dawes seized upon the EnglishHistory, which had already done such service, tore out the drier leaves in themiddle of the volume, and carefully added them to the little heap oftouchwood.

"Now, steady!"

The match was struck and lighted. The paper, after a few obstinate curlings,caught fire, and Frere, blowing the young flame with his breath, the bark beganto burn. He piled upon the fire all that was combustible, the hides began toshrivel, and a great column of black smoke rose up over the sea.

"Sylvia!" cried Rufus Dawes. "Sylvia! My darling! You are saved!"

She opened her blue eyes and looked at him, but gave no sign of recognition.Delirium had hold of her, and in the hour of safety the child had forgotten herpreserver. Rufus Dawes, overcome by this last cruel stroke of fortune, sat downin the stern of the boat, with the child in his arms, speechless. Frere,feeding the fire, thought that the chance he had so longed for had come. Withthe mother at the point of death, and the child delirious, who could testify tothis hated convict's skilfulness? No one but Mr. Maurice Frere, and Mr. MauriceFrere, as Commandant of convicts, could not but give up an "absconder" tojustice.

The ship changed her course, and came towards this strange fire in themiddle of the ocean. The boat, the fore part of her blazing like a pine torch,could not float above an hour. The little group of the convict and the childremained motionless. Mrs. Vickers was lying senseless, ignorant even of theapproaching succour.

The ship—a brig, with American colours flying—came within hailof them. Frere could almost distinguish figures on her deck. He made his wayaft to where Dawes was sitting, unconscious, with the child in his arms, andstirred him roughly with his foot.

"Go forward," he said, in tones of command, "and give the child to me."

Rufus Dawes raised his head, and, seeing the approaching vessel, awoke tothe consciousness of his duty. With a low laugh, full of unutterablebitterness, he placed the burden he had borne so tenderly in the arms of thelieutenant, and moved to the blazing bows.

*

The brig was close upon them. Her canvas loomed large and dusky, shadowingthe sea. Her wet decks shone in the morning sunlight. From her bulwarks peeredbearded and eager faces, looking with astonishment at this burning boat and itshaggard company, alone on that barren and stormy ocean.

Frere, with Sylvia in his arms, waited for her.

END OF BOOK TWO

BOOK III.—PORT ARTHUR. 1838.

CHAPTER I. A LABOURER IN THE VINEYARD.

"Society in Hobart Town, in this year of grace 1838, is, my dear lord,composed of very curious elements." So ran a passage in the sparkling letterwhich the Rev. Mr. Meekin, newly-appointed chaplain, and seven-days' residentin Van Diemen's Land, was carrying to the post office, for the delectation ofhis patron in England. As the reverend gentleman tripped daintily down thesummer street that lay between the blue river and the purple mountain, he casthis mild eyes hither and thither upon human nature, and the sentence he hadjust penned recurred to him with pleasurable appositeness. Elbowed bywell-dressed officers of garrison, bowing sweetly to well-dressed ladies,shrinking from ill-dressed, ill-odoured ticket-of-leave men, or hasteningacross a street to avoid being run down by the hand-carts that, driven bylittle gangs of grey-clothed convicts, rattled and jangled at him unexpectedlyfrom behind corners, he certainly felt that the society through which he movedwas composed of curious elements. Now passed, with haughty nose in the air, anewly-imported government official, relaxing for an instant his rigidity ofdemeanour to smile languidly at the chaplain whom Governor Sir John Franklindelighted to honour; now swaggered, with coarse defiance of gentility andpatronage, a wealthy ex-prisoner, grown fat on the profits of rum. Thepopulation that was abroad on that sunny December afternoon had certainly anincongruous appearance to a dapper clergyman lately arrived from London, andmissing, for the first time in his sleek, easy-going life, those social screenswhich in London civilization decorously conceal the frailties and vices ofhuman nature. Clad in glossy black, of the most fashionable clerical cut, withdandy boots, and gloves of lightest lavender—a white silk overcoathinting that its wearer was not wholly free from sensitiveness to sun andheat—the Reverend Meekin tripped daintily to the post office, anddeposited his letter. Two ladies met him as he turned.

"Mr. Meekin!"

Mr. Meekin's elegant hat was raised from his intellectual brow and hoveredin the air, like some courteous black bird, for an instant. "Mrs. Jellicoe!Mrs. Protherick! My dear leddies, this is an unexpected pleasure! And where,pray, are you going on this lovely afternoon? To stay in the house ispositively sinful. Ah! what a climate—but the Trail of the Serpent, mydear Mrs. Protherick—the Trail of the Serpent—" and he sighed.

"It must be a great trial to you to come to the colony," said Mrs. Jellicoe,sympathizing with the sigh.

Meekin smiled, as a gentlemanly martyr might have smiled. "The Lord's work,dear leddies—the Lord's work. I am but a poor labourer in the vineyard,toiling through the heat and burden of the day." The aspect of him, with hisfaultless tie, his airy coat, his natty boots, and his self-satisfied Christiansmile, was so unlike a poor labourer toiling through the heat and burden of theday, that good Mrs. Jellicoe, the wife of an orthodox Comptroller of Convicts'Stores, felt a horrible thrill of momentary heresy. "I would rather haveremained in England," continued Mr. Meekin, smoothing one lavender finger withthe tip of another, and arching his elegant eyebrows in mild deprecation of anypraise of his self-denial, "but I felt it my duty not to refuse the offer mademe through the kindness of his lordship. Here is a field, leddies—a fieldfor the Christian pastor. They appeal to me, leddies, these lambs of ourChurch—these lost and outcast lambs of our Church."

Mrs. Jellicoe shook her gay bonnet ribbons at Mr. Meekin, with a heartysmile. "You don't know our convicts," she said (from the tone of her jollyvoice it might have been "our cattle"). "They are horrible creatures. And asfor servants—my goodness, I have a fresh one every week. When you havebeen here a little longer, you will know them better, Mr. Meekin."

"They are quite unbearable at times." said Mrs. Protherick, the widow of aSuperintendent of Convicts' Barracks, with a stately indignation mantling inher sallow cheeks. "I am ordinarily the most patient creature breathing, but Ido confess that the stupid vicious wretches that one gets are enough to put asaint out of temper." "We have all our crosses, dear leddies—all ourcrosses," said the Rev. Mr. Meekin piously. "Heaven send us strength to bearthem! Good-morning."

"Why, you are going our way," said Mrs. Jellicoe. "We can walktogether."

"Delighted! I am going to call on Major Vickers."

"And I live within a stone's throw," returned Mrs. Protherick.

"What a charming little creature she is, isn't she?"

"Who?" asked Mr. Meekin, as they walked.

"Sylvia. You don't know her! Oh, a dear little thing."

"I have only met Major Vickers at Government House," said Meekin.

"I haven't yet had the pleasure of seeing his daughter."

"A sad thing," said Mrs. Jellicoe. "Quite a romance, if it was not so sad,you know. His wife, poor Mrs. Vickers."

"Indeed! What of her?" asked Meekin, bestowing a condescending bow on apasser-by. "Is she an invalid?"

"She is dead, poor soul," returned jolly Mrs. Jellicoe, with a fat sigh."You don't mean to say you haven't heard the story, Mr. Meekin?"

"My dear leddies, I have only been in Hobart Town a week, and I have notheard the story."

"It's about the mutiny, you know, the mutiny at Macquarie Harbour. Theprisoners took the ship, and put Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia ashore somewhere.Captain Frere was with them, too. The poor things had a dreadful time, andnearly died. Captain Frere made a boat at last, and they were picked up by aship. Poor Mrs. Vickers only lived a few hours, and little Sylvia—she wasonly twelve years old then—was quite light-headed. They thought shewouldn't recover."

"How dreadful! And has she recovered?"

"Oh, yes, she's quite strong now, but her memory's gone."

"Her memory?"

"Yes," struck in Mrs. Protherick, eager to have a share in the storytelling."She doesn't remember anything about the three or four weeks they wereashore—at least, not distinctly."

"It's a great mercy!" interrupted Mrs. Jellicoe, determined to keep the postof honour. "Who wants her to remember these horrors? From Captain Frere'saccount, it was positively awful!"

"You don't say so!" said Mr. Meekin, dabbing his nose with a daintyhandkerchief.

"A 'bolter'—that's what we call an escaped prisoner, Mr.Meekin—happened to be left behind, and he found them out, and insisted onsharing the provisions—the wretch! Captain Frere was obliged to watch himconstantly for fear he should murder them. Even in the boat he tried to runthem out to sea and escape. He was one of the worst men in the Harbour, theysay; but you should hear Captain Frere tell the story."

"And where is he now?" asked Mr. Meekin, with interest.

"Captain Frere?"

"No, the prisoner."

"Oh, goodness, I don't know—at Port Arthur, I think. I know that hewas tried for bolting, and would have been hanged but for Captain Frere'sexertions."

"Dear, dear! a strange story, indeed," said Mr. Meekin. "And so the younglady doesn't know anything about it?" "Only what she has been told, of course,poor dear. She's engaged to Captain Frere."

"Really! To the man who saved her. How charming—quite a romance!"

"Isn't it? Everybody says so. And Captain Frere's so much older than sheis."

"But her girlish love clings to her heroic protector," said Meekin, mildlypoetical. "Remarkable and beautiful. Quite the—hem!—the ivy and theoak, dear leddies. Ah, in our fallen nature, what sweet spots—I thinkthis is the gate."

A smart convict servant—he had been a pickpocket of note in days goneby—left the clergyman to repose in a handsomely furnished drawing-room,whose sun blinds revealed a wealth of bright garden flecked with shadows, whilehe went in search of Miss Vickers. The Major was out, it seemed, his duties asSuperintendent of Convicts rendering such absences necessary; but Miss Vickerswas in the garden, and could be called in at once. The Reverend Meekin, wipinghis heated brow, and pulling down his spotless wristbands, laid himself back onthe soft sofa, soothed by the elegant surroundings no less than by the coolnessof the atmosphere. Having no better comparison at hand, he compared thisluxurious room, with its soft couches, brilliant flowers, and opened piano, tothe chamber in the house of a West India planter, where all was glare and heatand barbarism without, and all soft and cool and luxurious within. He was socharmed with this comparison—he had a knack of being easily pleased withhis own thoughts—that he commenced to turn a fresh sentence for theBishop, and to sketch out an elegant description of the oasis in his desert ofa vineyard. While at this occupation, he was disturbed by the sound of voicesin the garden, and it appeared to him that someone near at hand was sobbing andcrying. Softly stepping on the broad verandah, he saw, on the grass-plot, twopersons, an old man and a young girl. The sobbing proceeded from the oldman.

"'Deed, miss, it's the truth, on my soul. I've but jest come back to yezthis morning. O my! but it's a cruel trick to play an ould man."

He was a white-haired old fellow, in a grey suit of convict frieze, andstood leaning with one veiny hand upon the pedestal of a vase of roses.

"But it is your own fault, Danny; we all warned you against her," said theyoung girl softly. "Sure ye did. But oh! how did I think it, miss? 'Tis thesecond time she served me so."

"How long was it this time, Danny?"

"Six months, miss. She said I was a drunkard, and beat her. Beat her, Godhelp me!" stretching forth two trembling hands. "And they believed her, o'course. Now, when I kem back, there's me little place all thrampled by theboys, and she's away wid a ship's captain, saving your presence, miss,dhrinking in the 'George the Fourth'. O my, but it's hard on an old man!" andhe fell to sobbing again.

The girl sighed. "I can do nothing for you, Danny. I dare say you can workabout the garden as you did before. I'll speak to the Major when he comeshome."

Danny, lifting his bleared eyes to thank her, caught sight of Mr. Meekin,and saluted abruptly. Miss Vickers turned, and Mr. Meekin, bowing hisapologies, became conscious that the young lady was about seventeen years ofa*ge, that her eyes were large and soft, her hair plentiful and bright, and thatthe hand which held the little book she had been reading was white andsmall.

"Miss Vickers, I think. My name is Meekin—the Reverend ArthurMeekin."

"How do you do, Mr. Meekin?" said Sylvia, putting out one of her smallhands, and looking straight at him. "Papa will be in directly."

"His daughter more than compensates for his absence, my dear MissVickers."

"I don't like flattery, Mr. Meekin, so don't use it. At least," she added,with a delicious frankness, that seemed born of her very brightness and beauty,"not that sort of flattery. Young girls do like flattery, of course. Don't youthink so?"

This rapid attack quite disconcerted Mr. Meekin, and he could only bow andsmile at the self-possessed young lady. "Go into the kitchen, Danny, and tellthem to give you some tobacco. Say I sent you. Mr. Meekin, won't you comein?"

"A strange old gentleman, that, Miss Vickers. A faithful retainer, Ipresume?"

"An old convict servant of ours," said Sylvia. "He was with papa many yearsago. He has got into trouble lately, though, poor old man."

"Into trouble?" asked Mr. Meekin, as Sylvia took off her hat.

"On the roads, you know. That's what they call it here. He married a freewoman much younger than himself, and she makes him drink, and then gives him incharge for insubordination."

"For insubordination! Pardon me, my dear young lady, did I understand yourightly?"

"Yes, insubordination. He is her assigned servant, you know," said Sylvia,as if such a condition of things was the most ordinary in the world, "and if hemisbehaves himself, she sends him back to the road-gang."

The Reverend Mr. Meekin opened his mild eyes very wide indeed. "What anextraordinary anomaly! I am beginning, my dear Miss Vickers, to find myselfindeed at the antipodes."

"Society here is different from society in England, I believe. Most newarrivals say so," returned Sylvia quietly.

"But for a wife to imprison her husband, my dear young lady!"

"She can have him flogged if she likes. Danny has been flogged. But then hiswife is a bad woman. He was very silly to marry her; but you can't reason withan old man in love, Mr. Meekin."

Mr. Meekin's Christian brow had grown crimson, and his decorous bloodtingled to his finger-tips. To hear a young lady talk in such an open way wasterrible. Why, in reading the Decalogue from the altar, Mr. Meekin wasaccustomed to soften one indecent prohibition, lest its uncompromisingplainness of speech might offend the delicate sensibilities of his femalesouls! He turned from the dangerous theme without an instant's pause, forwonder at the strange power accorded to Hobart Town "free" wives. "You havebeen reading?"

"'Paul et Virginie'. I have read it before in English."

"Ah, you read French, then, my dear young lady?"

"Not very well. I had a master for some months, but papa had to send himback to the gaol again. He stole a silver tankard out of the dining-room."

"A French master! Stole—"

"He was a prisoner, you know. A clever man. He wrote for the LondonMagazine. I have read his writings. Some of them are quite above theaverage."

"And how did he come to be transported?" asked Mr. Meekin, feeling that hisvineyard was getting larger than he had anticipated.

"Poisoning his niece, I think, but I forget the particulars. He was agentlemanly man, but, oh, such a drunkard!"

Mr. Meekin, more astonished than ever at this strange country, wherebeautiful young ladies talked of poisoning and flogging as matters of littlemoment, where wives imprisoned their husbands, and murderers taught French,perfumed the air with his cambric handkerchief in silence.

"You have not been here long, Mr. Meekin," said Sylvia, after a pause.

"No, only a week; and I confess I am surprised. A lovely climate, but, as Isaid just now to Mrs. Jellicoe, the Trail of the Serpent—the Trail of theSerpent—my dear young lady."

"If you send all the wretches in England here, you must expect the Trail ofthe Serpent," said Sylvia. "It isn't the fault of the colony."

"Oh, no; certainly not," returned Meekin, hastening to apologize. "But it isvery shocking."

"Well, you gentlemen should make it better. I don't know what the penalsettlements are like, but the prisoners in the town have not much inducement tobecome good men."

"They have the beautiful Liturgy of our Holy Church read to them twice everyweek, my dear young lady," said Mr. Meekin, as though he should solemnly say,"if that doesn't reform them, what will?"

"Oh, yes," returned Sylvia, "they have that, certainly; but that is only onSundays. But don't let us talk about this, Mr. Meekin," she added, pushing backa stray curl of golden hair. "Papa says that I am not to talk about thesethings, because they are all done according to the Rules of the Service, as hecalls it."

"An admirable notion of papa's," said Meekin, much relieved as the dooropened, and Vickers and Frere entered.

Vickers's hair had grown white, but Frere carried his thirty years as easilyas some men carry two-and-twenty.

"My dear Sylvia," began Vickers, "here's an extraordinary thing!" and then,becoming conscious of the presence of the agitated Meekin, he paused.

"You know Mr. Meekin, papa?" said Sylvia. "Mr. Meekin, Captain Frere."

"I have that pleasure," said Vickers. "Glad to see you, sir. Pray sit down."Upon which, Mr. Meekin beheld Sylvia unaffectedly kiss both gentlemen; butbecame strangely aware that the kiss bestowed upon her father was warmer thanthat which greeted her affianced husband.

"Warm weather, Mr. Meekin," said Frere. "Sylvia, my darling, I hope you havenot been out in the heat. You have! My dear, I've begged you—"

"It's not hot at all," said Sylvia pettishly. "Nonsense! I'm not made ofbutter—I sha'n't melt. Thank you, dear, you needn't pull the blind down."And then, as though angry with herself for her anger, she added, "You arealways thinking of me, Maurice," and gave him her hand affectionately.

"It's very oppressive, Captain Frere," said Meekin; "and to a stranger,quite enervating."

"Have a glass of wine," said Frere, as if the house was his own. "One wantsbucking up a bit on a day like this."

"Ay, to be sure," repeated Vickers. "A glass of wine. Sylvia, dear, somesherry. I hope she has not been attacking you with her strange theories, Mr.Meekin."

"Oh, dear, no; not at all," returned Meekin, feeling that this charmingyoung lady was regarded as a creature who was not to be judged by ordinaryrules. "We got on famously, my dear Major."

"That's right," said Vickers. "She is very plain-spoken, is my little girl,and strangers can't understand her sometimes. Can they, Poppet?"

Poppet tossed her head saucily. "I don't know," she said. "Why shouldn'tthey? But you were going to say something extraordinary when you came in. Whatis it, dear?"

"Ah," said Vickers with grave face. "Yes, a most extraordinary thing.They've caught those villains."

"What, you don't mean? No, papa!" said Sylvia, turning round with alarmedface.

In that little family there were, for conversational purposes, but one setof villains in the world—the mutineers of the Osprey.

"They've got four of them in the bay at this moment—Rex, Barker,Shiers, and Lesly. They are on board the Lady Jane. The most extraordinarystory I ever heard in my life. The fellows got to China and passed themselvesoff as shipwrecked sailors. The merchants in Canton got up a subscription, andsent them to London. They were recognized there by old Pine, who had beensurgeon on board the ship they came out in."

Sylvia sat down on the nearest chair, with heightened colour. "And where arethe others?"

"Two were executed in England; the other six have not been taken. Thesefellows have been sent out for trial."

"To what are you alluding, dear sir?" asked Meekin, eyeing the sherry withthe gaze of a fasting saint.

"The piracy of a convict brig five years ago," replied Vickers. "Thescoundrels put my poor wife and child ashore, and left them to starve. If ithadn't been for Frere—God bless him!—they would have died. Theyshot the pilot and a soldier—and—but it's a long story."

"I have heard of it already," said Meekin, sipping the sherry, which anotherconvict servant had brought for him; "and of your gallant conduct, CaptainFrere."

"Oh, that's nothing," said Frere, reddening. "We were all in the same boat.Poppet, have a glass of wine?"

"No," said Sylvia, "I don't want any."

She was staring at the strip of sunshine between the verandah and the blind,as though the bright light might enable her to remember something. "What's thematter?" asked Frere, bending over her. "I was trying to recollect, but Ican't, Maurice. It is all confused. I only remember a great shore and a greatsea, and two men, one of whom—that's you, dear—carried me in hisarms."

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Meekin.

"She was quite a baby," said Vickers, hastily, as though unwilling to admitthat her illness had been the cause of her forgetfulness.

"Oh, no; I was twelve years old," said Sylvia; "that's not a baby, you know.But I think the fever made me stupid."

Frere, looking at her uneasily, shifted in his seat. "There, don't thinkabout it now," he said.

"Maurice," asked she suddenly, "what became of the other man?"

"Which other man?"

"The man who was with us; the other one, you know."

"Poor Bates?"

"No, not Bates. The prisoner. What was his name?"

"Oh, ah—the prisoner," said Frere, as if he, too, had forgotten.

"Why, you know, darling, he was sent to Port Arthur."

"Ah!" said Sylvia, with a shudder. "And is he there still?"

"I believe so," said Frere, with a frown.

"By the by," said Vickers, "I suppose we shall have to get that fellow upfor the trial. We have to identify the villains."

"Can't you and I do that?" asked Frere uneasily.

"I am afraid not. I wouldn't like to swear to a man after five years."

"By George," said Frere, "I'd swear to him! When once I see a man'sface—that's enough for me."

"We had better get up a few prisoners who were at the Harbour at the time,"said Vickers, as if wishing to terminate the discussion. "I wouldn't let thevillains slip through my fingers for anything."

"And are the men at Port Arthur old men?" asked Meekin.

"Old convicts," returned Vickers. "It's our place for 'colonial sentence'men. The worst we have are there. It has taken the place of Macquarie Harbour.What excitement there will be among them when the schooner goes down onMonday!"

"Excitement! Indeed? How charming! Why?" asked Meekin.

"To bring up the witnesses, my dear sir. Most of the prisoners are Lifers,you see, and a trip to Hobart Town is like a holiday for them."

"And do they never leave the place when sentenced for life?" said Meekin,nibbling a biscuit. "How distressing!"

"Never, except when they die," answered Frere, with a laugh; "and then theyare buried on an island. Oh, it's a fine place! You should come down with meand have a look at it, Mr. Meekin. Picturesque, I can assure you."

"My dear Maurice," says Sylvia, going to the piano, as if in protest to theturn the conversation was taking, "how can you talk like that?"

"I should much like to see it," said Meekin, still nibbling, "for Sir Johnwas saying something about a chaplaincy there, and I understand that theclimate is quite endurable."

The convict servant, who had entered with some official papers for theMajor, stared at the dainty clergyman, and rough Maurice laughed again.

"Oh, it's a stunning climate," he said; "and nothing to do. Just the placefor you. There's a regular little colony there. All the scandals in VanDiemen's Land are hatched at Port Arthur."

This agreeable chatter about scandal and climate seemed a strange contrastto the grave-yard island and the men who were prisoners for life. PerhapsSylvia thought so, for she struck a few chords, which, compelling the party,out of sheer politeness, to cease talking for the moment, caused theconversation to flag, and hinted to Mr. Meekin that it was time for him todepart.

"Good afternoon, dear Miss Vickers," he said, rising with his sweetestsmile. "Thank you for your delightful music. That piece is an old, oldfavourite of mine. It was quite a favourite of dear Lady Jane's, and theBishop's. Pray excuse me, my dear Captain Frere, but this strangeoccurrence—of the capture of the wreckers, you know—must be myapology for touching on a delicate subject. How charming to contemplate!Yourself and your dear young lady! The preserved and preserver, dear Major.'None but the brave, you know, none but the brave, none but the brave, deservethe fair!' You remember glorious John, of course. Well, good afternoon."

"It's rather a long invitation," said Vickers, always well disposed toanyone who praised his daughter, "but if you've nothing better to do, come anddine with us on Christmas Day, Mr. Meekin. We usually have a little gatheringthen."

"Charmed," said Meekin—"charmed, I am sure. It is so refreshing tomeet with persons of one's own tastes in this delightful colony. 'Kindred soulstogether knit,' you know, dear Miss Vickers. Indeed yes. Once more—goodafternoon."

Sylvia burst into laughter as the door closed. "What a ridiculous creature!"said she. "Bless the man, with his gloves and his umbrella, and his hair andhis scent! Fancy that mincing noodle showing me the way to Heaven! I'd ratherhave old Mr. Bowes, papa, though he is as blind as a beetle, and makes you soangry by bottling up his trumps as you call it."

"My dear Sylvia," said Vickers, seriously, "Mr. Meekin is a clergyman, youknow."

"Oh, I know," said Sylvia, "but then, a clergyman can talk like a man, can'the? Why do they send such people here? I am sure they could do much better athome. Oh, by the way, papa dear, poor old Danny's come back again. I told himhe might go into the kitchen. May he, dear?"

"You'll have the house full of these vagabonds, you little puss," saidVickers, kissing her. "I suppose I must let him stay. What has he been doingnow?"

"His wife," said Sylvia, "locked him up, you know, for being drunk. Wife!What do people want with wives, I wonder?"

"Ask Maurice," said her father, smiling.

Sylvia moved away, and tossed her head.

"What does he know about it? Maurice, you are a great bear; and if youhadn't saved my life, you know, I shouldn't love you a bit. There, you may kissme" (her voice grew softer). "This convict business has brought it all back;and I should be ungrateful if I didn't love you, dear."

Maurice Frere, with suddenly crimsoned face, accepted the proffered caress,and then turned to the window. A grey-clothed man was working in the garden,and whistling as he worked. "They're not so badly off," said Frere, under hisbreath.

"What's that, sir?" asked Sylvia.

"That I am not half good enough for you," cried Frere, with suddenvehemence. "I—"

"It's my happiness you've got to think of, Captain Bruin," said the girl."You've saved my life, haven't you, and I should be wicked if I didn't loveyou! No, no more kisses," she added, putting out her hand. "Come, papa, it'scool now; let's walk in the garden, and leave Maurice to think of his ownunworthiness."

Maurice watched the retreating pair with a puzzled expression. "She alwaysleaves me for her father," he said to himself. "I wonder if she really lovesme, or if it's only gratitude, after all?"

He had often asked himself the same question during the five years of hiswooing, but he had never satisfactorily answered it.

CHAPTER II. SARAH PURFOY'S REQUEST.

The evening passed as it had passed a hundred times before; and havingsmoked a pipe at the barracks, Captain Frere returned home. His home was acottage on the New Town Road—a cottage which he had occupied since hisappointment as Assistant Police Magistrate, an appointment given to him as areward for his exertions in connection with the Osprey mutiny. Captain MauriceFrere had risen in life. Quartered in Hobart Town, he had assumed a position insociety, and had held several of those excellent appointments which in the year1834 were bestowed upon officers of garrison. He had been Superintendent ofWorks at Bridgewater, and when he got his captaincy, Assistant PoliceMagistrate at Bothwell. The affair of the Osprey made a noise; and it wastacitly resolved that the first "good thing" that fell vacant should be givento the gallant preserver of Major Vickers's child.

Major Vickers also prospered. He had always been a careful man, and havingsaved some money, had purchased land on favourable terms. The "assignmentsystem" enabled him to cultivate portions of it at a small expense, and,following the usual custom, he stocked his run with cattle and sheep. He hadsold his commission, and was now a comparatively wealthy man. He owned a fineestate; the house he lived in was purchased property. He was in good odour atGovernment House, and his office of Superintendent of Convicts caused him totake an active part in that local government which keeps a man constantlybefore the public. Major Vickers, a colonist against his will, had become, byforce of circ*mstances, one of the leading men in Van Diemen's Land. Hisdaughter was a good match for any man; and many ensigns and lieutenants,cursing their hard lot in "country quarters", many sons of settlers living ontheir father's station among the mountains, and many dapper clerks on the civilestablishment envied Maurice Frere his good fortune. Some went so far as to saythat the beautiful daughter of "Regulation Vickers" was too good for the coarsered-faced Frere, who was noted for his fondness for low society, andoverbearing, almost brutal demeanour. No one denied, however, that CaptainFrere was a valuable officer. It was said that, in consequence of his tastes,he knew more about the tricks of convicts than any man on the island. It wassaid, even, that he was wont to disguise himself, and mix with the pass-holdersand convict servants, in order to learn their signs and mysteries. When incharge at Bridgewater it had been his delight to rate the chain-gangs in theirown hideous jargon, and to astound a new-comer by his knowledge of his previoushistory. The convict population hated and cringed to him, for, with hisbrutality, and violence, he mingled a ferocious good humour, that resultedsometimes in tacit permission to go without the letter of the law. Yet, as theconvicts themselves said, "a man was never safe with the Captain"; for, afterdrinking and joking with them, as the Sir Oracle of some public-house whosehostess he delighted to honour, he would disappear through a side door just asthe constables burst in at the back, and show himself as remorseless, in hisnext morning's sentence of the captured, as if he had never entered a tap-roomin all his life. His superiors called this "zeal"; his inferiors "treachery".For himself, he laughed. "Everything is fair to those wretches," he wasaccustomed to say.

As the time for his marriage approached, however, he had in a measure givenup these exploits, and strove, by his demeanour, to make his acquaintancesforget several remarkable scandals concerning his private life, for thepromulgation of which he once cared little. When Commandant at the MariaIsland, and for the first two years after his return from the unluckyexpedition to Macquarie Harbour, he had not suffered any fear of society'sopinion to restrain his vices, but, as the affection for the pure young girl,who looked upon him as her saviour from a dreadful death, increased in honeststrength, he had resolved to shut up those dark pages in his colonialexperience, and to read therein no more. He was not remorseful, he was not evendisgusted. He merely came to the conclusion that, when a man married, he was toconsider certain extravagances common to all bachelors as at an end. He had"had his fling, like all young men", perhaps he had been foolish like mostyoung men, but no reproachful ghost of past misdeeds haunted him. His naturewas too prosaic to admit the existence of such phantoms. Sylvia, in her purityand excellence, was so far above him, that in raising his eyes to her, he lostsight of all the sordid creatures to whose level he had once debased himself,and had come in part to regard the sins he had committed, before his redemptionby the love of this bright young creature, as evil done by him under a pastcondition of existence, and for the consequences of which he was notresponsible. One of the consequences, however, was very close to him at thismoment. His convict servant had, according to his instructions, sat up for him,and as he entered, the man handed him a letter, bearing a superscription in afemale hand.

"Who brought this?" asked Frere, hastily tearing it open to read. "Thegroom, sir. He said that there was a gentleman at the 'George the Fourth' whowished to see you."

Frere smiled, in admiration of the intelligence which had dictated such amessage, and then frowned in anger at the contents of the letter. "You needn'twait," he said to the man. "I shall have to go back again, I suppose."

Changing his forage cap for a soft hat, and selecting a stick from amiscellaneous collection in a corner, he prepared to retrace his steps. "Whatdoes she want now?" he asked himself fiercely, as he strode down the moonlitroad; but beneath the fierceness there was an under-current of petulance, whichimplied that, whatever "she" did want, she had a right to expect.

The "George the Fourth" was a long low house, situated in Elizabeth Street.Its front was painted a dull red, and the narrow panes of glass in its windows,and the ostentatious affectation of red curtains and homely comfort, gave to ita spurious appearance of old English jollity. A knot of men round the doormelted into air as Captain Frere approached, for it was now past eleveno'clock, and all persons found in the streets after eight could be compelled to"show their pass" or explain their business. The convict constables were notscrupulous in the exercise of their duty, and the bluff figure of Frere, cladin the blue serge which he affected as a summer costume, looked not unlike thatof a convict constable.

Pushing open the side door with the confident manner of one well acquaintedwith the house, Frere entered, and made his way along a narrow passage to aglass door at the further end. A tap upon this door brought a white-faced,pock-pitted Irish girl, who curtsied with servile recognition of the visitor,and ushered him upstairs. The room into which he was shown was a large one. Ithad three windows looking into the street, and was handsomely furnished. Thecarpet was soft, the candles were bright, and the supper tray gleamedinvitingly from a table between the windows. As Frere entered, a little terrierran barking to his feet. It was evident that he was not a constant visitor. Therustle of a silk dress behind the terrier betrayed the presence of a woman; andFrere, rounding the promontory of an ottoman, found himself face to face withSarah Purfoy.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "Pray, sit down."

This was the only greeting that passed between them, and Frere sat down, inobedience to a motion of a plump hand that twinkled with rings.

The eleven years that had passed since we last saw this woman had dealtgently with her. Her foot was as small and her hand as white as of yore. Herhair, bound close about her head, was plentiful and glossy, and her eyes hadlost none of their dangerous brightness. Her figure was coarser, and the whitearm that gleamed through a muslin sleeve showed an outline that a fastidiousartist might wish to modify. The most noticeable change was in her face. Thecheeks owned no longer that delicate purity which they once boasted, but hadbecome thicker, while here and there showed those faint red streaks—asthough the rich blood throbbed too painfully in the veins—which are thefirst signs of the decay of "fine" women. With middle age and the fullness offigure to which most women of her temperament are prone, had come also thatindescribable vulgarity of speech and manner which habitual absence of moralrestraint never fails to produce.

Maurice Frere spoke first; he was anxious to bring his visit to as speedy atermination as possible. "What do you want of me?" he asked.

Sarah Purfoy laughed; a forced laugh, that sounded so unnatural, that Frereturned to look at her. "I want you to do me a favour—a very great favour;that is if it will not put you out of the way."

"What do you mean?" asked Frere roughly, pursing his lips with a sullen air."Favour! What do you call this?" striking the sofa on which he sat. "Isn't thisa favour? What do you call your precious house and all that's in it? Isn't thata favour? What do you mean?"

To his utter astonishment the woman replied by shedding tears. For some timehe regarded her in silence, as if unwilling to be softened by such shallowdevice, but eventually felt constrained to say something. "Have you beendrinking again?" he asked, "or what's the matter with you? Tell me what it isyou want, and have done with it. I don't know what possessed me to come here atall."

Sarah sat upright, and dashed away her tears with one passionate hand.

"I am ill, can't you see, you fool!" said she. "The news has unnerved me. IfI have been drinking, what then? It's nothing to you, is it?"

"Oh, no," returned the other, "it's nothing to me. You are the principalparty concerned. If you choose to bloat yourself with brandy, do it by allmeans."

"You don't pay for it, at any rate!" said she, with quickness of retaliationwhich showed that this was not the only occasion on which they hadquarrelled.

"Come," said Frere, impatiently brutal, "get on. I can't stop here allnight."

She suddenly rose, and crossed to where he was standing.

"Maurice, you were very fond of me once."

"Once," said Maurice.

"Not so very many years ago."

"Hang it!" said he, shifting his arm from beneath her hand, "don't let ushave all that stuff over again. It was before you took to drinking andswearing, and going raving mad with passion, any way."

"Well, dear," said she, with her great glittering eyes belying the softtones of her voice, "I suffered for it, didn't I? Didn't you turn me out intothe streets? Didn't you lash me with your whip like a dog? Didn't you put me ingaol for it, eh? It's hard to struggle against you, Maurice."

The compliment to his obstinacy seemed to please him—perhaps thecrafty woman intended that it should—and he smiled.

"Well, there; let old times be old times, Sarah. You haven't done badly,after all," and he looked round the well-furnished room. "What do youwant?"

"There was a transport came in this morning."

"Well?"

"You know who was on board her, Maurice!"

Maurice brought one hand into the palm of the other with a rough laugh.

"Oh, that's it, is it! 'Gad, what a flat I was not to think of it before!You want to see him, I suppose?" She came close to him, and, in herearnestness, took his hand. "I want to save his life!"

"Oh, that be hanged, you know! Save his life! It can't be done."

"You can do it, Maurice."

"I save John Rex's life?" cried Frere. "Why, you must be mad!"

"He is the only creature that loves me, Maurice—the only man who caresfor me. He has done no harm. He only wanted to be free—was it notnatural? You can save him if you like. I only ask for his life. What does itmatter to you? A miserable prisoner—his death would be of no use. Let himlive, Maurice."

Maurice laughed. "What have I to do with it?"

"You are the principal witness against him. If you say that he behavedwell—and he did behave well, you know: many men would have left you tostarve—they won't hang him."

"Oh, won't they! That won't make much difference."

"Ah, Maurice, be merciful!" She bent towards him, and tried to retain hishand, but he withdrew it.

"You're a nice sort of woman to ask me to help your lover—a man wholeft me on that cursed coast to die, for all he cared," he said, with a gallingrecollection of his humiliation of five years back. "Save him! Confound him,not I!"

"Ah, Maurice, you will." She spoke with a suppressed sob in her voice. "Whatis it to you? You don't care for me now. You beat me, and turned me out ofdoors, though I never did you wrong. This man was a husband to me—long,long before I met you. He never did you any harm; he never will. He will blessyou if you save him, Maurice."

Frere jerked his head impatiently. "Bless me!" he said. "I don't want hisblessings. Let him swing. Who cares?"

Still she persisted, with tears streaming from her eyes, with white armsupraised, on her knees even, catching at his coat, and beseeching him in brokenaccents. In her wild, fierce beauty and passionate abandonment she might havebeen a deserted Ariadne—a suppliant Medea. Anything rather than what shewas—a dissolute, half-maddened woman, praying for the pardon of herconvict husband.

Maurice Frere flung her off with an oath. "Get up!" he cried brutally, "andstop that nonsense. I tell you the man's as good as dead for all I shall do tosave him."

At this repulse, her pent-up passion broke forth. She sprang to her feet,and, pushing back the hair that in her frenzied pleading had fallen about herface, poured out upon him a torrent of abuse. "You! Who are you, that you dareto speak to me like that? His little finger is worth your whole body. He is aman, a brave man, not a coward, like you. A coward! Yes, a coward! a coward! Acoward! You are very brave with defenceless men and weak women. You have beatenme until I was bruised black, you cur; but who ever saw you attack a man unlesshe was chained or bound? Do not I know you? I have seen you taunt a man at thetriangles, until I wished the screaming wretch could get loose, and murder youas you deserve! You will be murdered one of these days, MauriceFrere—take my word for it. Men are flesh and blood, and flesh and bloodwon't endure the torments you lay on it!"

"There, that'll do," says Frere, growing paler. "Don't excite yourself."

"I know you, you brutal coward. I have not been your mistress—Godforgive me!—without learning you by heart. I've seen your ignorance andyour conceit. I've seen the men who ate your food and drank your wine laugh atyou. I've heard what your friends say; I've heard the comparisons they make.One of your dogs has more brains than you, and twice as much heart. And theseare the men they send to rule us! Oh, Heaven! And such an animal as this haslife and death in his hand! He may hang, may he? I'll hang with him, then, andGod will forgive me for murder, for I will kill you!"

Frere had cowered before this frightful torrent of rage, but, at the screamwhich accompanied the last words, he stepped forward as though to seize her. Inher desperate courage, she flung herself before him. "Strike me! You daren't! Idefy you! Bring up the wretched creatures who learn the way to Hell in thiscursed house, and let them see you do it. Call them! They are old friends ofyours. They all know Captain Maurice Frere."

"Sarah!"

"You remember Lucy Barnes—poor little Lucy Barnes that stolesixpennyworth of calico. She is downstairs now. Would you know her if you sawher? She isn't the bright-faced baby she was when they sent her here to'reform', and when Lieutenant Frere wanted a new housemaid from the Factory!Call for her!—call! do you hear? Ask any one of those beasts whom youlash and chain for Lucy Barnes. He'll tell you all about her—ay, andabout many more—many more poor souls that are at the bidding of anydrunken brute that has stolen a pound note to fee the Devil with! Oh, you goodGod in Heaven, will You not judge this man?"

Frere trembled. He had often witnessed this creature's whirlwinds ofpassion, but never had he seen her so violent as this. Her frenzy frightenedhim. "For Heaven's sake, Sarah, be quiet. What is it you want? What would youdo?"

"I'll go to this girl you want to marry, and tell her all I know of you. Ihave seen her in the streets—have seen her look the other way when Ipassed her—have seen her gather up her muslin skirts when my silkstouched her—I that nursed her, that heard her say her baby-prayers (OJesus, pity me!)—and I know what she thinks of women like me. She isgood—and virtuous—and cold. She would shudder at you if she knewwhat I know. Shudder! She would hate you! And I will tell her! Ay, I will! Youwill be respectable, will you? A model husband! Wait till I tell her mystory—till I send some of these poor women to tell theirs. You kill mylove; I'll blight and ruin yours!"

Frere caught her by both wrists, and with all his strength forced her to herknees. "Don't speak her name," he said in a hoarse voice, "or I'll do you amischief. I know all you mean to do. I'm not such a fool as not to see that. Bequiet! Men have murdered women like you, and now I know how they came to doit."

For a few minutes a silence fell upon the pair, and at last Frere, releasingher hands, fell back from her.

"I'll do what you want, on one condition."

"What?"

"That you leave this place."

"Where for?"

"Anywhere—the farther the better. I'll pay your passage to Sydney, andyou go or stay there as you please."

She had grown calmer, hearing him thus relenting. "But this house,Maurice?"

"You are not in debt?"

"No."

"Well, leave it. It's your own affair, not mine. If I help you, you mustgo."

"May I see him?"

"No."

"Ah, Maurice!"

"You can see him in the dock if you like," says Frere, with a laugh, cutshort by a flash of her eyes. "There, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me! Go on."

"Listen here," said he doggedly. "If you will go away, and promise never tointerfere with me by word or deed, I'll do what you want."

"What will you do?" she asked, unable to suppress a smile at the victory shehad won.

"I will not say all I know about this man. I will say he befriended me. Iwill do my best to save his life."

"You can save it if you like."

"Well, I will try. On my honour, I will try."

"I must believe you, I suppose?" said she doubtfully; and then, with asudden pitiful pleading, in strange contrast to her former violence, "You arenot deceiving me, Maurice?"

"No. Why should I? You keep your promise, and I'll keep mine. Is it abargain?"

"Yes."

He eyed her steadfastly for some seconds, and then turned on his heel. As hereached the door she called him back. Knowing him as she did, she felt that hewould keep his word, and her feminine nature could not resist a partingsneer.

"There is nothing in the bargain to prevent me helping him to escape!" shesaid with a smile.

"Escape! He won't escape again, I'll go bail. Once get him in double ironsat Port Arthur, and he's safe enough."

The smile on her face seemed infectious, for his own sullen featuresrelaxed. "Good night, Sarah," he said.

She put out her hand, as if nothing had happened. "Good night, CaptainFrere. It's a bargain, then?"

"A bargain."

"You have a long walk home. Will you have some brandy?"

"I don't care if I do," he said, advancing to the table, and filling hisglass. "Here's a good voyage to you!"

Sarah Purfoy, watching him, burst into a laugh. "Human beings are queercreatures," she said. "Who would have thought that we had been calling eachother names just now? I say, I'm a vixen when I'm roused, ain't I,Maurice?"

"Remember what you've promised," said he, with a threat in his voice, as hemoved to the door. "You must be out of this by the next ship that leaves."

"Never fear, I'll go."

Getting into the cool street directly, and seeing the calm stars shining,and the placid water sleeping with a peace in which he had no share, he stroveto cast off the nervous fear that was on him. That interview had frightenedhim, for it had made him think. It was hard that, just as he had turned over anew leaf, this old blot should come through to the clean page. It was cruelthat, having comfortably forgotten the past, he should be thus rudely remindedof it.

CHAPTER III. THE STORY OF TWO BIRDS OF PREY.

The reader of the foregoing pages has doubtless asked himself, "what is thelink which binds together John Rex and Sarah Purfoy?"

In the year 1825 there lived at St. Heliers, Jersey, an old watchmaker,named Urban Purfoy. He was a hard-working man, and had amassed a littlemoney—sufficient to give his grand-daughter an education above the commonin those days. At sixteen, Sarah Purfoy was an empty-headed, strong-willed,precocious girl, with big brown eyes. She had a bad opinion of her own sex, andan immense admiration for the young and handsome members of the other. Theneighbours said that she was too high and mighty for her rank in life. Hergrandfather said she was a "beauty", and like her poor dear mother. She herselfthought rather meanly of her personal attractions, and rather highly of hermental ones. She was brimful of vitality, with strong passions, and littlereligious sentiment. She had not much respect for moral courage, for she didnot understand it; but she was a profound admirer of personal prowess. Herdistaste for the humdrum life she was leading found expression in a rebellionagainst social usages. She courted notoriety by eccentricities of dress, andwas never so happy as when she was misunderstood. She was the sort of girl ofwhom women say—"It is a pity she has no mother"; and men, "It is a pityshe does not get a husband"; and who say to themselves, "When shall I have alover?" There was no lack of beings of this latter class among the officersquartered in Fort Royal and Fort Henry; but the female population of the islandwas free and numerous, and in the embarrassment of riches, Sarah wasoverlooked. Though she adored the soldiery, her first lover was a civilian.Walking one day on the cliff, she met a young man. He was tall, well-looking,and well-dressed. His name was Lemoine; he was the son of a somewhat wealthyresident of the island, and had come down from London to recruit his health andto see his friends. Sarah was struck by his appearance, and looked back at him.He had been struck by hers, and looked back also. He followed her, and spoke toher—some remark about the wind or the weather—and she thought hisvoice divine. They got into conversation—about scenery, lonely walks, andthe dullness of St. Heliers. "Did she often walk there?" "Sometimes." "Wouldshe be there tomorrow?" "She might." Mr. Lemoine lifted his hat, and went backto dinner, rather pleased with himself.

They met the next day, and the day after that. Lemoine was not a gentleman,but he had lived among gentlemen, and had caught something of their manner. Hesaid that, after all, virtue was a mere name, and that when people werepowerful and rich, the world respected them more than if they had been honestand poor. Sarah agreed with this sentiment. Her grandfather was honest andpoor, and yet nobody respected him—at least, not with such respect as shecared to acknowledge. In addition to his talent for argument, Lemoine washandsome and had money—he showed her quite a handful of bank-notes oneday. He told her of London and the great ladies there, and hinting that theywere not always virtuous, drew himself up with a moody air, as though he hadbeen unhappily the cause of their fatal lapse into wickedness. Sarah did notwonder at this in the least. Had she been a great lady, she would have done thesame. She began to coquet with this seductive fellow, and to hint to him thatshe had too much knowledge of the world to set a fictitious value upon virtue.He mistook her artfulness for innocence, and thought he had made a conquest.Moreover, the girl was pretty, and when dressed properly, would look well. Onlyone obstacle stood in the way of their loves—the dashing profligate waspoor. He had been living in London above his means, and his father was notinclined to increase his allowance.

Sarah liked him better than anybody else she had seen, but there are twosides to every bargain. Sarah Purfoy must go to London. In vain her loversighed and swore. Unless he would promise to take her away with him, Diana wasnot more chaste. The more virtuous she grew, the more vicious did Lemoine feel.His desire to possess her increased in proportionate ratio to her resistance,and at last he borrowed two hundred pounds from his father's confidential clerk(the Lemoines were merchants by profession), and acceded to her wishes. Therewas no love on either side—vanity was the mainspring of the wholetransaction. Lemoine did not like to be beaten; Sarah sold herself for apassage to England and an introduction into the "great world".

We need not describe her career at this epoch. Suffice it to say that shediscovered that vice is not always conducive to happiness, and is not, even inthis world, so well rewarded as its earnest practice might merit. Sated, anddisappointed, she soon grew tired of her life, and longed to escape from itswearying dissipations. At this juncture she fell in love.

The object of her affections was one Mr. Lionel Crofton. Crofton was tall,well made, and with an insinuating address. His features were too stronglymarked for beauty. His eyes were the best part of his face, and, like his hair,they were jet black. He had broad shoulders, sinewy limbs, and small hands andfeet. His head was round, and well-shaped, but it bulged a little over the earswhich were singularly small and lay close to his head. With this man, barelyfour years older than herself, Sarah, at seventeen, fell violently in love.This was the more strange as, though fond of her, he would tolerate nocaprices, and possessed an ungovernable temper, which found vent in curses, andeven blows. He seemed to have no profession or business, and though he owned agood address, he was even less of a gentleman than Lemoine. Yet Sarah,attracted by one of the strange sympathies which constitute the romance of suchwomen's lives, was devoted to him. Touched by her affection, and rating herintelligence and unscrupulousness at their true value, he told her who he was.He was a swindler, a forger, and a thief, and his name was John Rex. When sheheard this she experienced a sinister delight. He told her of his plots, histricks, his escapes, his villainies; and seeing how for years this young manhad preyed upon the world which had deceived and disowned her, her heart wentout to him. "I am glad you found me," she said. "Two heads are better than one.We will work together."

John Rex, known among his intimate associates as Dandy Jack, was theputative son of a man who had been for many years valet to Lord Bellasis, andwho retired from the service of that profligate nobleman with a sum of moneyand a wife. John Rex was sent to as good a school as could be procured for him,and at sixteen was given, by the interest of his mother with his father'sformer master, a clerkship in an old-established city banking-house. Mrs. Rexwas intensely fond of her son, and imbued him with a desire to shine inaristocratic circles. He was a clever lad, without any principle; he would lieunblushingly, and steal deliberately, if he thought he could do so withimpunity. He was cautious, acquisitive, imaginative, self-conceited, anddestructive. He had strong perceptive faculties, and much invention andversatility, but his "moral sense" was almost entirely wanting. He found thathis fellow clerks were not of that "gentlemanly" stamp which his mother thoughtso admirable, and therefore he despised them. He thought he should like to gointo the army, for he was athletic, and rejoiced in feats of muscular strength.To be tied all day to a desk was beyond endurance. But John Rex, senior, toldhim to "wait and see what came of it." He did so, and in the meantime kept latehours, got into bad company, and forged the name of a customer of the bank to acheque for twenty pounds. The fraud was a clumsy one, and was detected intwenty-four hours. Forgeries by clerks, however easily detected, areunfortunately not considered to add to the attractions of a banking-house, andthe old-established firm decided not to prosecute, but dismissed Mr. John Rexfrom their service. The ex-valet, who never liked his legalized son, was atfirst for turning him out of doors, but by the entreaties of his wife, was atlast induced to place the promising boy in a draper's shop, in the CityRoad.

This employment was not a congenial one, and John Rex planned to leave it.He lived at home, and had his salary—about thirty shillings aweek—for pocket money. Though he displayed considerable skill with thecue, and not infrequently won considerable sums for one in his position, hisexpenses averaged more than his income; and having borrowed all he could, hefound himself again in difficulties. His narrow escape, however, had taught hima lesson, and he resolved to confess all to his indulgent mother, and be moreeconomical for the future. Just then one of those "lucky chances" which blightso many lives occurred. The "shop-walker" died, and Messrs. Baffaty & Co.made the gentlemanly Rex act as his substitute for a few days. Shop-walkershave opportunities not accorded to other folks, and on the evening of the thirdday Mr. Rex went home with a bundle of lace in his pocket. Unfortunately, heowed more than the worth of this petty theft, and was compelled to steal again.This time he was detected. One of his fellow-shopmen caught him in the very actof concealing a roll of silk, ready for future abstraction, and, to hisastonishment, cried "Halves!" Rex pretended to be virtuously indignant, butsoon saw that such pretence was useless; his companion was too wily to befooled with such affectation of innocence. "I saw you take it," said he, "andif you won't share I'll tell old Baffaty." This argument was irresistible, andthey shared. Having become good friends, the self-made partner lent Rex ahelping hand in the disposal of the booty, and introduced him to a purchaser.The purchaser violated all rules of romance by being—not a Jew, but avery orthodox Christian. He kept a second-hand clothes warehouse in the CityRoad, and was supposed to have branch establishments all over London.

Mr. Blicks purchased the stolen goods for about a third of their value, andseemed struck by Mr. Rex's appearance. "I thort you was a swell mobsman," saidhe. This, from one so experienced, was a high compliment. Encouraged bysuccess, Rex and his companion took more articles of value. John Rex paid offhis debts, and began to feel himself quite a "gentleman" again. Just as Rex hadarrived at this pleasing state of mind, Baffaty discovered the robbery. Nothaving heard about the bank business, he did not suspect Rex—he was sucha gentlemanly young man—but having had his eye for some time upon Rex'spartner, who was vulgar, and squinted, he sent for him. Rex's partner stoutlydenied the accusation, and old Baffaty, who was a man of merciful tendencies,and could well afford to lose fifty pounds, gave him until the next morning toconfess, and state where the goods had gone, hinting at the persuasive powersof a constable at the end of that time. The shopman, with tears in his eyes,came in a hurry to Rex, and informed him that all was lost. He did not want toconfess, because he must implicate his friend Rex, but if he did not confess hewould be given in charge. Flight was impossible, for neither had money. In thisdilemma John Rex remembered Blicks's compliment, and burned to deserve it. Ifhe must retreat, he would lay waste the enemy's country. His exodus should belike that of the Israelites—he would spoil the Egyptians. The shop-walkerwas allowed half an hour in the middle of the day for lunch. John Rex tookadvantage of this half-hour to hire a cab and drive to Blicks. That worthy manreceived him cordially, for he saw that he was bent upon great deeds. John Rexrapidly unfolded his plan of operations. The warehouse doors were fastened witha spring. He would remain behind after they were locked, and open them at agiven signal. A light cart or cab could be stationed in the lane at the back,three men could fill it with valuables in as many hours. Did Blicks know ofthree such men? Blicks's one eye glistened. He thought he did know. Athalf-past eleven they should be there. Was that all? No. Mr. John Rex was notgoing to "put up" such a splendid thing for nothing. The booty was worth atleast £5,000 if it was worth a shilling—he must have £100cash when the cart stopped at Blicks's door. Blicks at first refused pointblank. Let there be a division, but he would not buy a pig in a poke. Rex wasfirm, however; it was his only chance, and at last he got a promise of£80. That night the glorious achievement known in the annals of BowStreet as "The Great Silk Robbery" took place, and two days afterwards John Rexand his partner, dining comfortably at Birmingham, read an account of thetransaction—not in the least like it—in a London paper.

John Rex, who had now fairly broken with dull respectability, bid adieu tohis home, and began to realize his mother's wishes. He was, after his fashion,a "gentleman". As long as the £80 lasted, he lived in luxury, and by thetime it was spent he had established himself in his profession. This professionwas a lucrative one. It was that of a swindler. Gifted with a handsome person,facile manner, and ready wit, he had added to these natural advantages someskill at billiards, some knowledge of gambler's legerdemain, and the usefulconsciousness that he must prey or be preyed on. John Rex was no commonswindler; his natural as well as his acquired abilities saved him from vulgarerrors. He saw that to successfully swindle mankind, one must not aim atcomparative, but superlative, ingenuity. He who is contented with being onlycleverer than the majority must infallibly be outwitted at last, and to be onceoutwitted is—for a swindler—to be ruined. Examining, moreover, intothe history of detected crime, John Rex discovered one thing. At the bottom ofall these robberies, deceptions, and swindles, was some lucky fellow whoprofited by the folly of his confederates. This gave him an idea. Suppose hecould not only make use of his own talents to rob mankind, but utilize those ofothers also? Crime runs through infinite grades. He proposed to himself to beat the top; but why should he despise those good fellows beneath him? Hisspeciality was swindling, billiard-playing, card-playing, borrowing money,obtaining goods, never risking more than two or three coups in a year. Butothers plundered houses, stole bracelets, watches, diamonds—made as muchin a night as he did in six months—only their occupation was moredangerous. Now came the question—why more dangerous? Because these menwere mere clods, bold enough and clever enough in their own rude way, but nomatch for the law, with its Argus eyes and its Briarean hands. They did therougher business well enough; they broke locks, and burst doors, and "neddied"constables, but in the finer arts of plan, attack, and escape, they were sadlydeficient. Good. These men should be the hands; he would be the head. He wouldplan the robberies; they should execute them.

Working through many channels, and never omitting to assist a fellow-workerwhen in distress, John Rex, in a few years, and in a most prosaic business way,became the head of a society of ruffians. Mixing with fast clerks andunsuspecting middle-class profligates, he found out particulars of houses illguarded, and shops insecurely fastened, and "put up" Blicks's ready ruffians tothe more dangerous work. In his various disguises, and under his many names, hefound his way into those upper circles of "fast" society, where animals turninto birds, where a wolf becomes a rook, and a lamb a pigeon. Rich spendthriftswho affected male society asked him to their houses, and Mr. AnthonyCroftonbury, Captain James Craven, and Mr. Lionel Crofton were namesremembered, sometimes with pleasure, oftener with regret, by many a broken manof fortune. He had one quality which, to a man of his profession, wasinvaluable—he was cautious, and master of himself. Having made a success,wrung commission from Blicks, rooked a gambling ninny like Lemoine, or securedan assortment of jewellery sent down to his "wife" in Gloucestershire, he woulddisappear for a time. He liked comfort, and revelled in the sense of securityand respectability. Thus he had lived for three years when he met Sarah Purfoy,and thus he proposed to live for many more. With this woman as a coadjutor, hethought he could defy the law. She was the net spread to catch his "pigeons";she was the well-dressed lady who ordered goods in London for her husband atCanterbury, and paid half the price down, "which was all this letter authorizedher to do," and where a less beautiful or clever woman might have failed, shesucceeded. Her husband saw fortune before him, and believed that, with commonprudence, he might carry on his most lucrative employment of "gentleman" untilhe chose to relinquish it. Alas for human weakness! He one day did a foolishthing, and the law he had so successfully defied got him in the simplest wayimaginable.

Under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, John Rex and Sarah Purfoy wereliving in quiet lodgings in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury. Their landlady wasa respectable poor woman, and had a son who was a constable. This son was givento talking, and, coming in to supper one night, he told his mother that on thefollowing evening an attack was to be made on a gang of coiners in the OldStreet Road. The mother, dreaming all sorts of horrors during the night, camethe next day to Mrs. Skinner, in the parlour, and, under a pledge of profoundsecrecy, told her of the dreadful expedition in which her son was engaged. JohnRex was out at a pigeon match with Lord Bellasis, and when he returned, at nineo'clock, Sarah told him what she had heard.

Now, 4, Bank-place, Old Street Road, was the residence of a man named Green,who had for some time carried on the lucrative but dangerous trade of"counterfeiting". This man was one of the most daring of that army of ruffianswhose treasure chest and master of the mint was Blicks, and his liberty wasvaluable. John Rex, eating his dinner more nervously than usual, ruminated onthe intelligence, and thought it would be but wise to warn Green of his danger.Not that he cared much for Green personally, but it was bad policy to missdoing a good turn to a comrade, and, moreover, Green, if captured might wag histongue too freely. But how to do it? If he went to Blicks, it might be toolate; he would go himself. He went out—and was captured. When Sarah heardof the calamity she set to work to help him. She collected all her money andjewels, paid Mrs. Skinner's rent, went to see Rex, and arranged his defence.Blicks was hopeful, but Green—who came very near hanging—admittedthat the man was an associate of his, and the Recorder, being in a severe mood,transported him for seven years. Sarah Purfoy vowed that she would follow him.She was going as passenger, as emigrant, anything, when she saw Mrs. Vickers'sadvertisem*nt for a "lady's-maid," and answered it. It chanced that Rex wasshipped in the Malabar, and Sarah, discovering this before the vessel had beena week at sea, conceived the bold project of inciting a mutiny for the rescueof her lover. We know the result of that scheme, and the story of thescoundrel's subsequent escape from Macquarie Harbour.

CHAPTER IV. "THE NOTORIOUS DAWES."

The mutineers of the Osprey had been long since given up as dead, and thestory of their desperate escape had become indistinct to the general publicmind. Now that they had been recaptured in a remarkable manner, popular beliefinvested them with all sorts of strange surroundings. They hadbeen—according to report—kings over savage islanders, chiefs oflawless and ferocious pirates, respectable married men in Java, merchants inSingapore, and swindlers in Hong Kong. Their adventures had been dramatized ata London theatre, and the popular novelist of that day was engaged in a workdescriptive of their wondrous fortunes.

John Rex, the ringleader, was related, it was said, to a noble family, and aspecial message had come out to Sir John Franklin concerning him. He had everyprospect of being satisfactorily hung, however, for even the most outspokenadmirers of his skill and courage could not but admit that he had committed anoffence which was death by the law. The Crown would leave nothing undone toconvict him, and the already crowded prison was re-crammed with half a dozenlife sentence men, brought up from Port Arthur to identify the prisoners.Amongst this number was stated to be "the notorious Dawes".

This statement gave fresh food for recollection and invention. It wasremembered that "the notorious Dawes" was the absconder who had been broughtaway by Captain Frere, and who owed such fettered life as he possessed to thefact that he had assisted Captain Frere to make the wonderful boat in which themarooned party escaped. It was remembered, also, how sullen and morose he hadbeen on his trial five years before, and how he had laughed when thecommutation of his death sentence was announced to him. The Hobart Town Gazettepublished a short biography of this horrible villain—a biography settingforth how he had been engaged in a mutiny on board the convict ship, how he hadtwice escaped from the Macquarie Harbour, how he had been repeatedly floggedfor violence and insubordination, and how he was now double-ironed at PortArthur, after two more ineffectual attempts to regain his freedom. Indeed, theGazette, discovering that the wretch had been originally transported forhighway robbery, argued very ably it would be far better to hang such wildbeasts in the first instance than suffer them to cumber the ground, and growconfirmed in villainy. "Of what use to society," asked the Gazette, quitepathetically, "has this scoundrel been during the last eleven years?" Andeverybody agreed that he had been of no use whatever.

Miss Sylvia Vickers also received an additional share of public attention.Her romantic rescue by the heroic Frere, who was shortly to reap the reward ofhis devotion in the good old fashion, made her almost as famous as the villainDawes, or his confederate monster John Rex. It was reported that she was togive evidence on the trial, together with her affianced husband, they being theonly two living witnesses who could speak to the facts of the mutiny. It wasreported also that her lover was naturally most anxious that she should notgive evidence, as she was—an additional point of romanticinterest—affected deeply by the illness consequent on the suffering shehad undergone, and in a state of pitiable mental confusion as to the wholebusiness. These reports caused the Court, on the day of the trial, to becrowded with spectators; and as the various particulars of the marvelloushistory of this double escape were detailed, the excitement grew more intense.The aspect of the four heavily-ironed prisoners caused a sensation which, inthat city of the ironed, was quite novel, and bets were offered and taken as tothe line of defence which they would adopt. At first it was thought that theywould throw themselves on the mercy of the Crown, seeking, in the veryextravagance of their story, to excite public sympathy; but a little study ofthe demeanour of the chief prisoner, John Rex, dispelled that conjecture. Calm,placid, and defiant, he seemed prepared to accept his fate, or to meet hisaccusers with some plea which should be sufficient to secure his acquittal onthe capital charge. Only when he heard the indictment, setting forth that hehad "feloniously pirated the brig Osprey," he smiled a little.

Mr. Meekin, sitting in the body of the Court, felt his religious prejudicessadly shocked by that smile. "A perfect wild beast, my dear Miss Vickers," hesaid, returning, in a pause during the examination of the convicts who had beenbrought to identify the prisoner, to the little room where Sylvia and herfather were waiting. "He has quite a tigerish look about him."

"Poor man!" said Sylvia, with a shudder.

"Poor! My dear young lady, you do not pity him?"

"I do," said Sylvia, twisting her hands together as if in pain. "I pity themall, poor creatures."

"Charming sensibility!" says Meekin, with a glance at Vickers. "The truewoman's heart, my dear Major."

The Major tapped his fingers impatiently at this ill-timed twaddle. Sylviawas too nervous just then for sentiment. "Come here, Poppet," he said, "andlook through this door. You can see them from here, and if you do not recognizeany of them, I can't see what is the use of putting you in the box; though, ofcourse, if it is necessary, you must go."

The raised dock was just opposite to the door of the room in which they weresitting, and the four manacled men, each with an armed warder behind him, werevisible above the heads of the crowd. The girl had never before seen theceremony of trying a man for his life, and the silent and antique solemnitiesof the business affected her, as it affects all who see it for the first time.The atmosphere was heavy and distressing. The chains of the prisoners clankedominously. The crushing force of judge, gaolers, warders, and constablesassembled to punish the four men, appeared cruel. The familiar faces, that inher momentary glance, she recognized, seemed to her evilly transfigured. Eventhe countenance of her promised husband, bent eagerly forward towards thewitness-box, showed tyrannous and bloodthirsty. Her eyes hastily followed thepointing finger of her father, and sought the men in the dock. Two of themlounged, sullen and inattentive; one nervously chewed a straw, or piece oftwig, pawing the dock with restless hand; the fourth scowled across the Courtat the witness-box, which she could not see. The four faces were all strange toher.

"No, papa," she said, with a sigh of relief, "I can't recognize them atall."

As she was turning from the door, a voice from the witness-box behind hermade her suddenly pale and pause to look again. The Court itself appeared, atthat moment, affected, for a murmur ran through it, and some official cried,"Silence!"

The notorious criminal, Rufus Dawes, the desperado of Port Arthur, the wildbeast whom the Gazette had judged not fit to live, had just entered thewitness-box. He was a man of thirty, in the prime of life, with a torso whosemuscular grandeur not even the ill-fitting yellow jacket could altogetherconceal, with strong, embrowned, and nervous hands, an upright carriage, and apair of fierce, black eyes that roamed over the Court hungrily.

Not all the weight of the double irons swaying from the leathern thongaround his massive loins, could mar that elegance of attitude which comes onlyfrom perfect muscular development. Not all the frowning faces bent upon himcould frown an accent of respect into the contemptuous tones in which heanswered to his name, "Rufus Dawes, prisoner of the Crown".

"Come away, my darling," said Vickers, alarmed at his daughter's blanchedface and eager eyes.

"Wait," she said impatiently, listening for the voice whose owner she couldnot see. "Rufus Dawes! Oh, I have heard that name before!"

"You are a prisoner of the Crown at the penal settlement of PortArthur?"

"Yes."

"For life?"

"For life."

Sylvia turned to her father with breathless inquiry in her eyes. "Oh, papa!who is that speaking? I know the name! the voice!"

"That is the man who was with you in the boat, dear," says Vickers gravely."The prisoner."

The eager light died out of her eyes, and in its place came a look ofdisappointment and pain. "I thought it was a good man," she said, holding bythe edge of the doorway. "It sounded like a good voice."

And then she pressed her hands over her eyes and shuddered. "There, there,"says Vickers soothingly, "don't be afraid, Poppet; he can't hurt you now."

"No, ha! ha!" says Meekin, with great display of off-hand courage, "thevillain's safe enough now."

The colloquy in the Court went on. "Do you know the prisoners in thedock?"

"Yes." "Who are they?"

"John Rex, Henry Shiers, James Lesly, and, and—I'm not sure about thelast man." "You are not sure about the last man. Will you swear to the threeothers?"

"Yes."

"You remember them well?"

"I was in the chain-gang at Macquarie Harbour with them for three years."Sylvia, hearing this hideous reason for acquaintance, gave a low cry, and fellinto her father's arms.

"Oh, papa, take me away! I feel as if I was going to remember somethingterrible!"

Amid the deep silence that prevailed, the cry of the poor girl wasdistinctly audible in the Court, and all heads turned to the door. In thegeneral wonder no one noticed the change that passed over Rufus Dawes. His faceflushed scarlet, great drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and his black eyesglared in the direction from whence the sound came, as though they would piercethe envious wood that separated him from the woman whose voice he had heard.Maurice Frere sprang up and pushed his way through the crowd under thebench.

"What's this?" he said to Vickers, almost brutally. "What did you bring herhere for? She is not wanted. I told you that."

"I considered it my duty, sir," says Vickers, with stately rebuke.

"What has frightened her? What has she heard? What has she seen?" askedFrere, with a strangely white face. "Sylvia, Sylvia!"

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. "Take me home, papa; I'm ill.Oh, what thoughts!"

"What does she mean?" cried Frere, looking in alarm from one to theother.

"That ruffian Dawes frightened her," said Meekin. "A gush of recollection,poor child. There, there, calm yourself, Miss Vickers. He is quite safe."

"Frightened her, eh?" "Yes," said Sylvia faintly, "he frightened me,Maurice. I needn't stop any longer, dear, need I?"

"No," says Frere, the cloud passing from his face. "Major, I beg yourpardon, but I was hasty. Take her home at once. This sort of thing is too muchfor her." And so he went back to his place, wiping his brow, and breathinghard, as one who had just escaped from some near peril.

Rufus Dawes had remained in the same attitude until the figure of Frere,passing through the doorway, roused him. "Who is she?" he said, in a low,hoarse voice, to the constable behind him. "Miss Vickers," said the manshortly, flinging the information at him as one might fling a bone to adangerous dog.

"Miss Vickers," repeated the convict, still staring in a sort of bewilderedagony. "They told me she was dead!"

The constable sniffed contemptuously at this preposterous conclusion, as whoshould say, "If you know all about it, animal, why did you ask?" and then,feeling that the fixed gaze of his interrogator demanded some reply, added,"You thort she was, I've no doubt. You did your best to make her so, I'veheard."

The convict raised both his hands with sudden action of wrathful despair, asthough he would seize the other, despite the loaded muskets; but, checkinghimself with sudden impulse, wheeled round to the Court.

"Your Honour!—Gentlemen! I want to speak."

The change in the tone of his voice, no less than the sudden loudness of theexclamation, made the faces, hitherto bent upon the door through which Mr.Frere had passed, turn round again. To many there it seemed that the "notoriousDawes" was no longer in the box, for, in place of the upright and defiantvillain who stood there an instant back, was a white-faced, nervous, agitatedcreature, bending forward in an attitude almost of supplication, one handgrasping the rail, as though to save himself from falling, the otheroutstretched towards the bench. "Your Honour, there has been some dreadfulmistake made. I want to explain about myself. I explained before, when first Iwas sent to Port Arthur, but the letters were never forwarded by theCommandant; of course, that's the rule, and I can't complain. I've been sentthere unjustly, your Honour. I made that boat, your Honour. I saved the Major'swife and daughter. I was the man; I did it all myself, and my liberty was swornaway by a villain who hated me. I thought, until now, that no one knew thetruth, for they told me that she was dead." His rapid utterance took the Courtso much by surprise that no one interrupted him. "I was sentenced to death forbolting, sir, and they reprieved me because I helped them in the boat. Helpedthem! Why, I made it! She will tell you so. I nursed her! I carried her in myarms! I starved myself for her! She was fond of me, sir. She was indeed. Shecalled me 'Good Mr. Dawes'."

At this, a coarse laugh broke out, which was instantly checked. The judgebent over to ask, "Does he mean Miss Vickers?" and in this interval RufusDawes, looking down into the Court, saw Maurice Frere staring up at him withterror in his eyes. "I see you, Captain Frere, coward and liar! Put him in thebox, gentlemen, and make him tell his story. She'll contradict him, never fear.Oh, and I thought she was dead all this while!"

The judge had got his answer from the clerk by this time. "Miss Vickers hadbeen seriously ill, had fainted just now in the Court. Her only memories of theconvict who had been with her in the boat were those of terror and disgust. Thesight of him just now had most seriously affected her. The convict himself wasan inveterate liar and schemer, and his story had been already disproved byCaptain Frere."

The judge, a man inclining by nature to humanity, but forced by experienceto receive all statements of prisoners with caution, said all he could say, andthe tragedy of five years was disposed of in the following dialogue:—

JUDGE: This is not the place for an accusation against Captain Frere, northe place to argue upon your alleged wrongs. If you have suffered injustice,the authorities will hear your complaint, and redress it.

RUFUS DAWES I have complained, your Honour. I wrote letter after letter tothe Government, but they were never sent. Then I heard she was dead, and theysent me to the Coal Mines after that, and we never hear anything there.

JUDGE I can't listen to you. Mr. Mangles, have you any more questions to askthe witness?

But Mr. Mangles not having any more, someone called, "Matthew Gabbett," andRufus Dawes, still endeavouring to speak, was clanked away with, amid a buzz ofremark and surmise.

*

The trial progressed without further incident. Sylvia was not called, and,to the astonishment of many of his enemies, Captain Frere went into thewitness-box and generously spoke in favour of John Rex. "He might have left usto starve," Frere said; "he might have murdered us; we were completely in hispower. The stock of provisions on board the brig was not a large one, and Iconsider that, in dividing it with us, he showed great generosity for one inhis situation." This piece of evidence told strongly in favour of theprisoners, for Captain Frere was known to be such an uncompromising foe to allrebellious convicts that it was understood that only the sternest sense ofjustice and truth could lead him to speak in such terms. The defence set up byRex, moreover, was most ingenious. He was guilty of absconding, but hismoderation might plead an excuse for that. His only object was his freedom,and, having gained it, he had lived honestly for nearly three years, as hecould prove. He was charged with piratically seizing the brig Osprey, and heurged that the brig Osprey, having been built by convicts at Macquarie Harbour,and never entered in any shipping list, could not be said to be "piraticallyseized", in the strict meaning of the term. The Court admitted the force ofthis objection, and, influenced doubtless by Captain Frere's evidence, the factthat five years had passed since the mutiny, and that the two men most guilty(Cheshire and Barker) had been executed in England, sentenced Rex and his threecompanions to transportation for life to the penal settlements of thecolony.

CHAPTER V. MAURICE FRERE'S GOOD ANGEL.

At this happy conclusion to his labours, Frere went down to comfort the girlfor whose sake he had suffered Rex to escape the gallows. On his way he was metby a man who touched his hat, and asked to speak with him an instant. This manwas past middle age, owned a red brandy-beaten face, and had in his gait andmanner that nameless something that denotes the seaman.

"Well, Blunt," says Frere, pausing with the impatient air of a man whoexpects to hear bad news, "what is it now?"

"Only to tell you that it is all right, sir," says Blunt. "She's come aboardagain this morning."

"Come aboard again!" ejacul*ted Frere. "Why, I didn't know that she had beenashore. Where did she go?" He spoke with an air of confident authority, andBlunt—no longer the bluff tyrant of old—seemed to quail before him.The trial of the mutineers of the Malabar had ruined Phineas Blunt. Make whatexcuses he might, there was no concealing the fact that Pine found him drunk inhis cabin when he ought to have been attending to his duties on deck, and the"authorities" could not, or would not, pass over such a heinous breach ofdiscipline. Captain Blunt—who, of course, had his own version of thestory—thus deprived of the honour of bringing His Majesty's prisoners toHis Majesty's colonies of New South Wales and Van Diemen's Land, went on awhaling cruise to the South Seas. The influence which Sarah Purfoy had acquiredover him had, however, irretrievably injured him. It was as though she hadpoisoned his moral nature by the influence of a clever and wicked woman over asensual and dull-witted man. Blunt gradually sank lower and lower. He became adrunkard, and was known as a man with a "grievance against the Government".Captain Frere, having had occasion for him in some capacity, had become in amanner his patron, and had got him the command of a schooner trading fromSydney. On getting this command—not without some wry faces on the part ofthe owner resident in Hobart Town—Blunt had taken the temperance pledgefor the space of twelve months, and was a miserable dog in consequence. He was,however, a faithful henchman, for he hoped by Frere's means to get some"Government billet"—the grand object of all colonial sea captains of thatepoch.

"Well, sir, she went ashore to see a friend," says Blunt, looking at the skyand then at the earth.

"What friend?"

"The—the prisoner, sir."

"And she saw him, I suppose?"

"Yes, but I thought I'd better tell you, sir," says Blunt.

"Of course; quite right," returned the other; "you had better start at once.It's no use waiting."

"As you wish, sir. I can sail to-morrow morning—or this evening, ifyou like."

"This evening," says Frere, turning away; "as soon as possible."

"There's a situation in Sydney I've been looking after," said the other,uneasily, "if you could help me to it."

"What is it?"

"The command of one of the Government vessels, sir."

"Well, keep sober, then," says Frere, "and I'll see what I can do. And keepthat woman's tongue still if you can."

The pair looked at each other, and Blunt grinned slavishly.

"I'll do my best." "Take care you do," returned his patron, leaving himwithout further ceremony.

Frere found Vickers in the garden, and at once begged him not to talk aboutthe "business" to his daughter.

"You saw how bad she was to-day, Vickers. For goodness sake don't make herill again."

"My dear sir," says poor Vickers, "I won't refer to the subject. She's beenvery unwell ever since. Nervous and unstrung. Go in and see her."

So Frere went in and soothed the excited girl, with real sorrow at hersuffering.

"It's all right now, Poppet," he said to her. "Don't think of it any more.Put it out of your mind, dear."

"It was foolish of me, Maurice, I know, but I could not help it. The soundof—of—that man's voice seemed to bring back to me some great pityfor something or someone. I don't explain what I mean, I know, but I felt thatI was on the verge of remembering a story of some great wrong, just about tohear some dreadful revelation that should make me turn from all the people whomI ought most to love. Do you understand?"

"I think I know what you mean," says Frere, with averted face. "But that'sall nonsense, you know."

"Of course," returned she, with a touch of her old childish manner ofdisposing of questions out of hand. "Everybody knows it's all nonsense. Butthen we do think such things. It seems to me that I am double, that I havelived somewhere before, and have had another life—a dream-life."

"What a romantic girl you are," said the other, dimly comprehending hermeaning. "How could you have a dream-life?"

"Of course, not really, stupid! But in thought, you know. I dream suchstrange things now and then. I am always falling down precipices and intocataracts, and being pushed into great caverns in enormous rocks. Horribledreams!"

"Indigestion," returned Frere. "You don't take exercise enough. Youshouldn't read so much. Have a good five-mile walk."

"And in these dreams," continued Sylvia, not heeding his interruption,"there is one strange thing. You are always there, Maurice."

"Come, that's all right," says Maurice.

"Ah, but not kind and good as you are, Captain Bruin, but scowling, andthreatening, and angry, so that I am afraid of you."

"But that is only a dream, darling."

"Yes, but—" playing with the button of his coat.

"But what?"

"But you looked just so to-day in the Court, Maurice, and I think that'swhat made me so silly."

"My darling! There; hush—don't cry!"

But she had burst into a passion of sobs and tears, that shook her slightfigure in his arms.

"Oh, Maurice, I am a wicked girl! I don't know my own mind. I thinksometimes I don't love you as I ought—you who have saved me and nursedme."

"There, never mind about that," muttered Maurice Frere, with a sort ofchoking in his throat.

She grew more composed presently, and said, after a while, lifting her face,"Tell me, Maurice, did you ever, in those days of which you have spoken tome—when you nursed me as a little child in your arms, and fed me, andstarved for me—did you ever think we should be married?"

"I don't know," says Maurice. "Why?"

"I think you must have thought so, because—it's not vanity,dear—you would not else have been so kind, and gentle, and devoted."

"Nonsense, Poppet," he said, with his eyes resolutely averted.

"No, but you have been, and I am very pettish, sometimes. Papa has spoiledme. You are always affectionate, and those worrying ways of yours, which I getangry at, all come from love for me, don't they?"

"I hope so," said Maurice, with an unwonted moisture in his eyes.

"Well, you see, that is the reason why I am angry with myself for not lovingyou as I ought. I want you to like the things I like, and to love the books andthe music and the pictures and the—the World I love; and I forget thatyou are a man, you know, and I am only a girl; and I forget how nobly youbehaved, Maurice, and how unselfishly you risked your life for mine. Why, whatis the matter, dear?"

He had put her away from him suddenly, and gone to the window, gazing acrossthe sloping garden at the bay below, sleeping in the soft evening light. Theschooner which had brought the witnesses from Port Arthur lay off the shore,and the yellow flag at her mast fluttered gently in the cool evening breeze.The sight of this flag appeared to anger him, for, as his eyes fell on it, heuttered an impatient exclamation, and turned round again.

"Maurice!" she cried, "I have wounded you!"

"No, no. It is nothing," said he, with the air of a man surprised in amoment of weakness. "I—I did not like to hear you talk in thisway—about not loving me."

"Oh, forgive me, dear; I did not mean to hurt you. It is my silly way ofsaying more than I mean. How could I do otherwise than love you—after allyou have done?"

Some sudden desperate whim caused him to exclaim, "But suppose I had notdone all you think, would you not love me still?"

Her eyes, raised to his face with anxious tenderness for the pain she hadbelieved herself to have inflicted, fell at this speech.

"What a question! I don't know. I suppose I should; yet—but what isthe use, Maurice, of supposing? I know you have done it, and that is enough.How can I say what I might have done if something else had happened? Why, youmight not have loved me."

If there had been for a moment any sentiment of remorse in his selfishheart, the hesitation of her answer went far to dispel it.

"To be sure, that's true," and he placed his arm round her.

She lifted her face again with a bright laugh.

"We are a pair of geese—supposing! How can we help what has past? Wehave the Future, darling—the Future, in which I am to be your littlewife, and we are to love each other all our lives, like the people in thestory-books."

Temptation to evil had often come to Maurice Frere, and his selfish naturehad succumbed to it when in far less witching shape than this fair and innocentchild luring him with wistful eyes to win her. What hopes had he not built uponher love; what good resolutions had he not made by reason of the purity andgoodness she was to bring to him? As she said, the past was beyond recall; thefuture—in which she was to love him all her life—was before them.With the hypocrisy of selfishness which deceives even itself, he laid thelittle head upon his heart with a sensible glow of virtue.

"God bless you, darling! You are my Good Angel."

The girl sighed. "I will be your Good Angel, dear, if you will let me."

CHAPTER VI. MR. MEEKIN ADMINISTERS CONSOLATION.

Rex told Mr. Meekin, who, the next day, did him the honour to visit him,that, "under Providence, he owed his escape from death to the kind manner inwhich Captain Frere had spoken of him."

"I hope your escape will be a warning to you, my man," said Mr. Meekin, "andthat you will endeavour to make the rest of your life, thus spared by the mercyof Providence, an atonement for your early errors."

"Indeed I will, sir," said John Rex, who had taken Mr. Meekin's measure veryaccurately, "and it is very kind of you to condescend to speak so to a wretchlike me."

"Not at all," said Meekin, with affability; "it is my duty. I am a Ministerof the Gospel."

"Ah! sir, I wish I had attended to the Gospel's teachings when I wasyounger. I might have been saved from all this."

"You might, indeed, poor man; but the Divine Mercy is infinite—quiteinfinite, and will be extended to all of us—to you as well as to me."(This with the air of saying, "What do you think of that!") "Remember thepenitent thief, Rex—the penitent thief."

"Indeed I do, sir."

"And read your Bible, Rex, and pray for strength to bear yourpunishment."

"I will, Mr. Meekin. I need it sorely, sir—physical as well asspiritual strength, sir—for the Government allowance is sadlyinsufficient."

"I will speak to the authorities about a change in your dietary scale,"returned Meekin, patronizingly. "In the meantime, just collect together in yourmind those particulars of your adventures of which you spoke, and have themready for me when next I call. Such a remarkable history ought not to belost."

"Thank you kindly, sir. I will, sir. Ah! I little thought when I occupiedthe position of a gentleman, Mr. Meekin"—the cunning scoundrel had beenpiously grandiloquent concerning his past career—"that I should bereduced to this. But it is only just, sir."

"The mysterious workings of Providence are always just, Rex," returnedMeekin, who preferred to speak of the Almighty with well-bred vagueness.

"I am glad to see you so conscious of your errors. Good morning."

"Good morning, and Heaven bless you, sir," said Rex, with his tongue in hischeek for the benefit of his yard mates; and so Mr. Meekin tripped gracefullyaway, convinced that he was labouring most successfully in the Vineyard, andthat the convict Rex was really a superior person.

"I will send his narrative to the Bishop," said he to himself. "It willamuse him. There must be many strange histories here, if one could but findthem out."

As the thought passed through his brain, his eye fell upon the "notoriousDawes", who, while waiting for the schooner to take him back to Port Arthur,had been permitted to amuse himself by breaking stones. The prison-shed whichMr. Meekin was visiting was long and low, roofed with iron, and terminating ateach end in the stone wall of the gaol. At one side rose the cells, at theother the outer wall of the prison. From the outer wall projected aweatherboard under-roof, and beneath this were seated forty heavily-ironedconvicts. Two constables, with loaded carbines, walked up and down the clearspace in the middle, and another watched from a sort of sentry-box builtagainst the main wall. Every half-hour a third constable went down the line andexamined the irons. The admirable system of solitary confinement—which inaverage cases produces insanity in the space of twelve months—was as yetunknown in Hobart Town, and the forty heavily-ironed men had the pleasure ofseeing each other's faces every day for six hours.

The other inmates of the prison were at work on the roads, or otherwisebestowed in the day time, but the forty were judged too desperate to be letloose. They sat, three feet apart, in two long lines, each man with a heap ofstones between his outstretched legs, and cracked the pebbles in leisurelyfashion. The double row of dismal woodpeckers tapping at this terribly hollowbeech-tree of penal discipline had a semi-ludicrous appearance. It seemed sopainfully absurd that forty muscular men should be ironed and guarded for nobetter purpose than the cracking of a cartload of quartz-pebbles. In themeantime the air was heavy with angry glances shot from one to the other, andthe passage of the parson was hailed by a grumbling undertone of blasphemy. Itwas considered fashionable to grunt when the hammer came in contact with thestone, and under cover of this mock exclamation of fatigue, it was convenientto launch an oath. A fanciful visitor, seeing the irregularly rising hammersalong the line, might have likened the shed to the interior of some vast piano,whose notes an unseen hand was erratically fingering. Rufus Dawes was seatedlast on the line—his back to the cells, his face to the gaol wall. Thiswas the place nearest the watching constable, and was allotted on that accountto the most ill-favoured. Some of his companions envied him that melancholydistinction.

"Well, Dawes," says Mr. Meekin, measuring with his eye the distance betweenthe prisoner and himself, as one might measure the chain of some ferocious dog."How are you this morning, Dawes?"

Dawes, scowling in a parenthesis between the cracking of two stones, wasunderstood to say that he was very well.

"I am afraid, Dawes," said Mr. Meekin reproachfully, "that you have doneyourself no good by your outburst in court on Monday. I understand that publicopinion is quite incensed against you."

Dawes, slowly arranging one large fragment of bluestone in a comfortablebasin of smaller fragments, made no reply.

"I am afraid you lack patience, Dawes. You do not repent of your offencesagainst the law, I fear."

The only answer vouchsafed by the ironed man—if answer it could becalled—was a savage blow, which split the stone into sudden fragments,and made the clergyman skip a step backward.

"You are a hardened ruffian, sir! Do you not hear me speak to you?"

"I hear you," said Dawes, picking up another stone.

"Then listen respectfully, sir," said Meekin, roseate with celestial anger."You have all day to break those stones."

"Yes, I have all day," returned Rufus Dawes, with a dogged look upward, "andall next day, for that matter. Ugh!" and again the hammer descended.

"I came to console you, man—to console you," says Meekin, indignant atthe contempt with which his well-meant overtures had been received. "I wantedto give you some good advice!"

The self-important annoyance of the tone seemed to appeal to whatevervestige of appreciation for the humorous, chains and degradation had sufferedto linger in the convict's brain, for a faint smile crossed his features.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "Pray, go on."

"I was going to say, my good fellow, that you have done yourself a greatdeal of injury by your ill-advised accusation of Captain Frere, and the use youmade of Miss Vickers's name."

A frown, as of pain, contracted the prisoner's brows, and he seemed withdifficulty to put a restraint upon his speech. "Is there to be no inquiry, Mr.Meekin?" he asked, at length. "What I stated was the truth—the truth, sohelp me God!"

"No blasphemy, sir," said Meekin, solemnly. "No blasphemy, wretched man. Donot add to the sin of lying the greater sin of taking the name of the Lord thyGod in vain. He will not hold him guiltless, Dawes. He will not hold himguiltless, remember. No, there is to be no inquiry."

"Are they not going to ask her for her story?" asked Dawes, with a pitifulchange of manner. "They told me that she was to be asked. Surely they will askher."

"I am not, perhaps, at liberty," said Meekin, placidly unconscious of theagony of despair and rage that made the voice of the strong man before himquiver, "to state the intentions of the authorities, but I can tell you thatMiss Vickers will not be asked anything about you. You are to go back to PortArthur on the 24th, and to remain there."

A groan burst from Rufus Dawes; a groan so full of torture that even thecomfortable Meekin was thrilled by it.

"It is the Law, you know, my good man. I can't help it," he said. "Youshouldn't break the Law, you know."

"Curse the Law!" cries Dawes. "It's a Bloody Law; it's—there, I begyour pardon," and he fell to cracking his stones again, with a laugh that wasmore terrible in its bitter hopelessness of winning attention or sympathy, thanany outburst of passion could have been.

"Come," says Meekin, feeling uneasily constrained to bring forth some of hisLondon-learnt platitudes. "You can't complain. You have broken the Law, and youmust suffer. Civilized Society says you sha'n't do certain things, and if youdo them you must suffer the penalty Civilized Society imposes. You are notwanting in intelligence, Dawes, more's the pity—and you can't deny thejustice of that."

Rufus Dawes, as if disdaining to answer in words, cast his eyes round theyard with a glance that seemed to ask grimly if Civilized Society wasprogressing quite in accordance with justice, when its civilization createdsuch places as that stone-walled, carbine-guarded prison-shed, and filled itwith such creatures as those forty human beasts, doomed to spend the best yearsof their manhood cracking pebbles in it.

"You don't deny that?" asked the smug parson, "do you, Dawes?"

"It's not my place to argue with you, sir," said Dawes, in a tone ofindifference, born of lengthened suffering, so nicely balanced between contemptand respect, that the inexperienced Meekin could not tell whether he had made aconvert or subjected himself to an impertinence; "but I'm a prisoner for life,and don't look at it in the same way that you do."

This view of the question did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Meekin, forhis mild cheek flushed. Certainly, the fact of being a prisoner for life didmake some difference. The sound of the noonday bell, however, warned him tocease argument, and to take his consolations out of the way of the musteringprisoners.

With a great clanking and clashing of irons, the forty rose and stood eachby his stone-heap. The third constable came round, rapping the leg-irons ofeach man with easy nonchalance, and roughly pulling up the coarse trousers(made with buttoned flaps at the sides, like Mexican calzoneros, in order togive free play to the ankle fetters), so that he might assure himself that notricks had been played since his last visit. As each man passed this ordeal hesaluted, and clanked, with wide-spread legs, to the place in the double line.Mr. Meekin, though not a patron of field sports, found something in the scenethat reminded him of a blacksmith picking up horses' feet to examine thesoundness of their shoes.

"Upon my word," he said to himself, with a momentary pang of genuinecompassion, "it is a dreadful way to treat human beings. I don't wonder at thatwretched creature groaning under it. But, bless me, it is near one o'clock, andI promised to lunch with Major Vickers at two. How time flies, to be sure!"

CHAPTER VII. RUFUS DAWES'S IDYLL.

That afternoon, while Mr. Meekin was digesting his lunch, and chattingairily with Sylvia, Rufus Dawes began to brood over a desperate scheme. Theintelligence that the investigation he had hoped for was not to be granted tohim had rendered doubly bitter those galling fetters of self restraint which hehad laid upon himself. For five years of desolation he had waited and hoped fora chance which might bring him to Hobart Town, and enable him to denounce thetreachery of Maurice Frere. He had, by an almost miraculous accident, obtainedthat chance of open speech, and, having obtained it, he found that he was notallowed to speak. All the hopes he had formed were dashed to earth. All thecalmness with which he had forced himself to bear his fate was now turned intobitterest rage and fury. Instead of one enemy he had twenty. All—judge,jury, gaoler, and parson—were banded together to work him evil and denyhim right. The whole world was his foe: there was no honesty or truth in anyliving creature—save one.

During the dull misery of his convict life at Port Arthur one bright memoryshone upon him like a star. In the depth of his degradation, at the height ofhis despair, he cherished one pure and ennobling thought—the thought ofthe child whom he had saved, and who loved him. When, on board the whaler thathad rescued him from the burning boat, he had felt that the sailors, believingin Frere's bluff lies, shrunk from the moody felon, he had gained strength tobe silent by thinking of the suffering child. When poor Mrs. Vickers died,making no sign, and thus the chief witness to his heroism perished before hiseyes, the thought that the child was left had restrained his selfish regrets.When Frere, handing him over to the authorities as an absconder, ingeniouslytwisted the details of the boat-building to his own glorification, theknowledge that Sylvia would assign to these pretensions their true value hadgiven him courage to keep silence. So strong was his belief in her gratitude,that he scorned to beg for the pardon he had taught himself to believe that shewould ask for him. So utter was his contempt for the coward and boaster who,dressed in brief authority, bore insidious false witness against him, that,when he heard his sentence of life banishment, he disdained to make known thetrue part he had played in the matter, preferring to wait for the moreexquisite revenge, the more complete justification which would follow upon therecovery of the child from her illness. But when, at Port Arthur, day after daypassed over, and brought no word of pity or justification, he began, with asickening feeling of despair, to comprehend that something strange hadhappened. He was told by newcomers that the child of the Commandant lay stilland near to death. Then he heard that she and her father had left the colony,and that all prospect of her righting him by her evidence was at an end. Thisnews gave him a terrible pang; and at first he was inclined to break out intoupbraidings of her selfishness. But, with that depth of love which was in him,albeit crusted over and concealed by the sullenness of speech and manner whichhis sufferings had produced, he found excuses for her even then. She was ill.She was in the hands of friends who loved her, and disregarded him; perhaps,even her entreaties and explanations were put aside as childish babblings. Shewould free him if she had the power. Then he wrote "Statements", agonized tosee the Commandant, pestered the gaolers and warders with the story of hiswrongs, and inundated the Government with letters, which, containing, as theydid always, denunciations of Maurice Frere, were never suffered to reach theirdestination. The authorities, willing at the first to look kindly upon him inconsideration of his strange experience, grew weary of this perpetual iterationof what they believed to be malicious falsehoods, and ordered him heavier tasksand more continuous labour. They mistook his gloom for treachery, his impatientoutbursts of passion at his fate for ferocity, his silent endurance fordangerous cunning. As he had been at Macquarie Harbour, so did he become atPort Arthur—a marked man. Despairing of winning his coveted liberty byfair means, and horrified at the hideous prospect of a life in chains, he twiceattempted to escape, but escape was even more hopeless than it had been atHell's Gates. The peninsula of Port Arthur was admirably guarded, signalstations drew a chain round the prison, an armed boat's crew watched each bay,and across the narrow isthmus which connected it with the mainland was a cordonof watch-dogs, in addition to the soldier guard. He was retaken, of course,flogged, and weighted with heavier irons. The second time, they sent him to theCoal Mines, where the prisoners lived underground, worked half-naked, anddragged their inspecting gaolers in wagons upon iron tramways, when such greatpeople condescended to visit them. The day on which he started for this placehe heard that Sylvia was dead, and his last hope went from him.

Then began with him a new religion. He worshipped the dead. For the living,he had but hatred and evil words; for the dead, he had love and tenderthoughts. Instead of the phantoms of his vanished youth which were wont tovisit him, he saw now but one vision—the vision of the child who hadloved him. Instead of conjuring up for himself pictures of that home circle inwhich he had once moved, and those creatures who in the past years had thoughthim worthy of esteem and affection, he placed before himself but one idea, oneembodiment of happiness, one being who was without sin and without stain, amongall the monsters of that pit into which he had fallen. Around the figure of theinnocent child who had lain in his breast, and laughed at him with her redyoung mouth, he grouped every image of happiness and love. Having banished fromhis thoughts all hope of resuming his name and place, he pictured to himselfsome quiet nook at the world's end—a deep-gardened house in a Germancountry town, or remote cottage by the English seashore, where he and hisdream-child might have lived together, happier in a purer affection than thelove of man for woman. He bethought him how he could have taught her out of thestrange store of learning which his roving life had won for him, how he couldhave confided to her his real name, and perhaps purchased for her wealth andhonour by reason of it. Yet, he thought, she would not care for wealth andhonour; she would prefer a quiet life—a life of unassuming usefulness, alife devoted to good deeds, to charity and love. He could see her—in hisvisions—reading by a cheery fireside, wandering in summer woods, orlingering by the marge of the slumbering mid-day sea. He could feel—inhis dreams—her soft arms about his neck, her innocent kisses on his lips;he could hear her light laugh, and see her sunny ringlets float, back-blown, asshe ran to meet him. Conscious that she was dead, and that he did to her gentlememory no disrespect by linking her fortunes to those of a wretch who had seenso much of evil as himself, he loved to think of her as still living, and toplot out for her and for himself impossible plans for future happiness. In thenoisome darkness of the mine, in the glaring light of thenoonday—dragging at his loaded wagon, he could see her ever with him, hercalm eyes gazing lovingly on his, as they had gazed in the boat so long ago.She never seemed to grow older, she never seemed to wish to leave him. It wasonly when his misery became too great for him to bear, and he cursed andblasphemed, mingling for a time in the hideous mirth of his companions, thatthe little figure fled away. Thus dreaming, he had shaped out for himself asorrowful comfort, and in his dream-world found a compensation for the terribleaffliction of living. Indifference to his present sufferings took possession ofhim; only at the bottom of this indifference lurked a fixed hatred of the manwho had brought these sufferings upon him, and a determination to demand at thefirst opportunity a reconsideration of that man's claims to be esteemed a hero.It was in this mood that he had intended to make the revelation which he hadmade in Court, but the intelligence that Sylvia lived unmanned him, and hisprepared speech had been usurped by a passionate torrent of complaint andinvective, which convinced no one, and gave Frere the very argument he needed.It was decided that the prisoner Dawes was a malicious and artful scoundrel,whose only object was to gain a brief respite of the punishment which he had sojustly earned. Against this injustice he had resolved to rebel. It wasmonstrous, he thought, that they should refuse to hear the witness who was soready to speak in his favour, infamous that they should send him back to hisdoom without allowing her to say a word in his defence. But he would defeatthat scheme. He had planned a method of escape, and he would break from hisbonds, fling himself at her feet, and pray her to speak the truth for him, andso save him. Strong in his faith in her, and with his love for her brightenedby the love he had borne to her dream-image, he felt sure of her power torescue him now, as he had rescued her before. "If she knew I was alive, shewould come to me," he said. "I am sure she would. Perhaps they told her that Iwas dead."

Meditating that night in the solitude of his cell—his evil characterhad gained him the poor luxury of loneliness—he almost wept to think ofthe cruel deception that had doubtless been practised on her. "They have toldher that I was dead, in order that she might learn to forget me; but she couldnot do that. I have thought of her so often during these weary years that shemust sometimes have thought of me. Five years! She must be a woman now. Mylittle child a woman! Yet she is sure to be childlike, sweet, and gentle. Howshe will grieve when she hears of my sufferings. Oh! my darling, my darling,you are not dead!" And then, looking hastily about him in the darkness, asthough fearful even there of being seen, he pulled from out his breast a littlepacket, and felt it lovingly with his coarse, toil-worn fingers, reverentlyraising it to his lips, and dreaming over it, with a smile on his face, asthough it were a sacred talisman that should open to him the doors offreedom.

CHAPTER VIII. AN ESCAPE.

A few days after this—on the 23rd of December—Maurice Frere wasalarmed by a piece of startling intelligence. The notorious Dawes had escapedfrom gaol!

Captain Frere had inspected the prison that very afternoon, and it hadseemed to him that the hammers had never fallen so briskly, nor the chainsclanked so gaily, as on the occasion of his visit. "Thinking of their Christmasholiday, the dogs!" he had said to the patrolling warder. "Thinking about theirChristmas pudding, the luxurious scoundrels!" and the convict nearest him hadlaughed appreciatively, as convicts and schoolboys do laugh at the jests of theman in authority. All seemed contentment. Moreover, he had—by way of apleasant stroke of wit—tormented Rufus Dawes with his ill-fortune. "Theschooner sails to-morrow, my man," he had said; "you'll spend your Christmas atthe mines." And congratulated himself upon the fact that Rufus Dawes merelytouched his cap, and went on with his stone-cracking in silence. Certainlydouble irons and hard labour were fine things to break a man's spirit. So that,when in the afternoon of that same day he heard the astounding news that RufusDawes had freed himself from his fetters, climbed the gaol wall in broaddaylight, run the gauntlet of Macquarie Street, and was now supposed to besafely hidden in the mountains, he was dumbfounded.

"How the deuce did he do it, Jenkins?" he asked, as soon as he reached theyard.

"Well, I'm blessed if I rightly know, your honour," says Jenkins. "He wasover the wall before you could say 'knife'. Scott fired and missed him, andthen I heard the sentry's musket, but he missed him, too."

"Missed him!" cries Frere. "Pretty fellows you are, all of you! I supposeyou couldn't hit a haystack at twenty yards? Why, the man wasn't three feetfrom the end of your carbine!"

The unlucky Scott, standing in melancholy attitude by the empty irons,muttered something about the sun having been in his eyes. "I don't know how itwas, sir. I ought to have hit him, for certain. I think I did touch him, too,as he went up the wall."

A stranger to the customs of the place might have imagined that he waslistening to a conversation about a pigeon match.

"Tell me all about it," says Frere, with an angry curse. "I was justturning, your honour, when I hears Scott sing out 'Hullo!' and when I turnedround, I saw Dawes's irons on the ground, and him a-scrambling up the heap o'stones yonder. The two men on my right jumped up, and I thought it was amade-up thing among 'em, so I covered 'em with my carbine, according toinstructions, and called out that I'd shoot the first that stepped out. Then Iheard Scott's piece, and the men gave a shout like. When I looked round, he wasgone."

"Nobody else moved?"

"No, sir. I was confused at first, and thought they were all in it, butParton and Haines they runs in and gets between me and the wall, and then Mr.Short he come, and we examined their irons."

"All right?"

"All right, your honour; and they all swore they knowed nothing of it. Iknow Dawes's irons was all right when he went to dinner."

Frere stopped and examined the empty fetters. "All right be hanged," hesaid. "If you don't know your duty better than this, the sooner you gosomewhere else the better, my man. Look here!"

The two ankle fetters were severed. One had been evidently filed through,and the other broken transversely. The latter was bent, as from a violentblow.

"Don't know where he got the file from," said Warder Short.

"Know! Of course you don't know. You men never do know anything until themischief's done. You want me here for a month or so. I'd teach you your duty!Don't know—with things like this lying about? I wonder the whole yardisn't loose and dining with the Governor."

"This" was a fragment of delft pottery which Frere's quick eye had detectedamong the broken metal.

"I'd cut the biggest iron you've got with this; and so would he and plentymore, I'll go bail. You ought to have lived with me at Sarah Island, Mr. Short.Don't know!"

"Well, Captain Frere, it's an accident," says Short, "and can't be helpednow."

"An accident!" roared Frere. "What business have you with accidents? How, inthe devil's name, you let the man get over the wall, I don't know."

"He ran up that stone heap," says Scott, "and seemed to me to jump at theroof of the shed. I fired at him, and he swung his legs over the top of thewall and dropped."

Frere measured the distance from his eye, and an irrepressible feeling ofadmiration, rising out of his own skill in athletics, took possession of himfor an instant.

"By the Lord Harry, but it's a big jump!" he said; and then the instinctivefear with which the consciousness of the hideous wrong he had done the nowescaped convict inspired him, made him add: "A desperate villain like thatwouldn't stick at a murder if you pressed him hard. Which way did he go?"

"Right up Macquarie Street, and then made for the mountain. There were fewpeople about, but Mr. Mays, of the Star Hotel, tried to stop him, and wasknocked head over heels. He says the fellow runs like a deer."

"We'll have the reward out if we don't get him to-night," says Frere,turning away; "and you'd better put on an extra warder. This sort of game iscatching." And he strode away to the Barracks.

From right to left, from east to west, through the prison city flew thesignal of alarm, and the patrol, clattering out along the road to New Norfolk,made hot haste to strike the trail of the fugitive. But night came and foundhim yet at large, and the patrol returning, weary and disheartened, protestedthat he must be lying hid in some gorge of the purple mountain thatovershadowed the town, and would have to be starved into submission. Meanwhilethe usual message ran through the island, and so admirable were thearrangements which Arthur the reformer had initiated, that, before noon of thenext day, not a signal station on the coast but knew that No. 8942, etc., etc.,prisoner for life, was illegally at large. This intelligence, further aided bya paragraph in the Gazette anent the "Daring Escape", noised abroad, the worldcared little that the Mary Jane, Government schooner, had sailed for PortArthur without Rufus Dawes.

But two or three persons cared a good deal. Major Vickers, for one, wasindignant that his boasted security of bolts and bars should have been soeasily defied, and in proportion to his indignation was the grief of MessieursJenkins, Scott, and Co., suspended from office, and threatened with absolutedismissal. Mr. Meekin was terribly frightened at the fact that so dangerous amonster should be roaming at large within reach of his own saintly person.Sylvia had shown symptoms of nervous terror, none the less injurious becausecarefully repressed; and Captain Maurice Frere was a prey to the most cruelanxiety. He had ridden off at a hand-gallop within ten minutes after he hadreached the Barracks, and had spent the few hours of remaining daylight inscouring the country along the road to the North. At dawn the next day he wasaway to the mountain, and with a black-tracker at his heels, explored as muchof that wilderness of gully and chasm as nature permitted to him. He hadoffered to double the reward, and had examined a number of suspicious persons.It was known that he had been inspecting the prison a few hours before theescape took place, and his efforts were therefore attributed to zeal, notunmixed with chagrin. "Our dear friend feels his reputation at stake," thefuture chaplain of Port Arthur said to Sylvia at the Christmas dinner. "He isso proud of his knowledge of these unhappy men that he dislikes to be outwittedby any of them."

Notwithstanding all this, however, Dawes had disappeared. The fat landlordof the Star Hotel was the last person who saw him, and the flying yellow figureseemed to have been as completely swallowed up by the warm summer's afternoonas if it had run headlong into the blackest night that ever hung above theearth.

CHAPTER IX. JOHN REX'S LETTER HOME.

The "little gathering" of which Major Vickers had spoken to Mr. Meekin, hadgrown into something larger than he had anticipated. Instead of a quiet dinnerat which his own household, his daughter's betrothed, and the strangerclergyman only should be present, the Major found himself entangled withMesdames Protherick and Jellicoe, Mr. McNab of the garrison, and Mr. Pounce ofthe civil list. His quiet Christmas dinner had grown into an evening party.

The conversation was on the usual topic.

"Heard anything about that fellow Dawes?" asked Mr. Pounce.

"Not yet," says Frere, sulkily, "but he won't be out long. I've got a dozenmen up the mountain."

"I suppose it is not easy for a prisoner to make good his escape?" saysMeekin.

"Oh, he needn't be caught," says Frere, "if that's what you mean; but he'llstarve instead. The bushranging days are over now, and it's a precious poorlook-out for any man to live upon luck in the bush."

"Indeed, yes," says Mr. Pounce, lapping his soup. "This island seemsspecially adapted by Providence for a convict settlement; for with an admirableclimate, it carries little indigenous vegetation which will support humanlife."

"Wull," said McNab to Sylvia, "I don't think Prauvidence had any thocht o'caunveect deesiplin whun He created the cauleny o' Van Deemen's Lan'."

"Neither do I," said Sylvia.

"I don't know," says Mrs. Protherick. "Poor Protherick used often to saythat it seemed as if some Almighty Hand had planned the Penal Settlements roundthe coast, the country is so delightfully barren."

"Ay, Port Arthur couldn't have been better if it had been made on purpose,"says Frere; "and all up the coast from Tenby to St. Helen's there isn't a scrapfor human being to make a meal on. The West Coast is worse. By George, sir, inthe old days, I remember—"

"By the way," says Meekin, "I've got something to show you. Rex'sconfession. I brought it down on purpose."

"Rex's confession!"

"His account of his adventures after he left Macquarie Harbour. I am goingto send it to the Bishop."

"Oh, I should like to see it," said Sylvia, with heightened colour. "Thestory of these unhappy men has a personal interest for me."

"A forbidden subject, Poppet."

"No, papa, not altogether forbidden; for it does not affect me now as itused to do. You must let me read it, Mr. Meekin."

"A pack of lies, I expect," said Frere, with a scowl. "That scoundrel Rexcouldn't tell the truth to save his life."

"You misjudge him, Captain Frere," said Meekin. "All the prisoners are nothardened in iniquity like Rufus Dawes. Rex is, I believe, truly penitent, andhas written a most touching letter to his father."

"A letter!" said Vickers. "You know that, by the King's—no, theQueen's Regulations, no letters are allowed to be sent to the friends ofprisoners without first passing through the hands of the authorities."

"I am aware of that, Major, and for that reason have brought it with me,that you may read it for yourself. It seems to me to breathe a spirit of truepiety."

"Let's have a look at it," said Frere.

"Here it is," returned Meekin, producing a packet; "and when the cloth isremoved, I will ask permission of the ladies to read it aloud. It is mostinteresting."

A glance of surprise passed between the ladies Protherick and Jellicoe. Theidea of a convict's letter proving interesting! Mr. Meekin was new to the waysof the place.

Frere, turning the packet between his finger, read the address:—

John Rex, sen., Care of Mr. Blicks, 38, Bishopsgate Street Within,London.

"Why can't he write to his father direct?" said he. "Who's Blick?"

"A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the fortunate Rexpassed his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you are aware."

"Educated prisoners are always the worst," said Vickers. "James, some morewine. We don't drink toasts here, but as this is Christmas Eve, 'Her Majestythe Queen'!"

"Hear, hear, hear!" says Maurice. "'Her Majesty the Queen'!"

Having drunk this loyal toast with due fervour, Vickers proposed, "HisExcellency Sir John Franklin", which toast was likewise duly honoured.

"Here's a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, sir," said Frere,with the letter still in his hand. "God bless us all."

"Amen!" says Meekin piously. "Let us hope He will; and now, leddies, theletter. I will read you the Confession afterwards." Opening the packet with thesatisfaction of a Gospel vineyard labourer who sees his first vine sprouting,the good creature began to read aloud:

"'Hobart Town, "'December 27, 1838. "'My Dear Father,—Through all thechances, changes, and vicissitudes of my chequered life, I never had a task sopainful to my mangled feelings as the present one, of addressing you from thisdoleful spot—my sea-girt prison, on the beach of which I stand a monumentof destruction, driven by the adverse winds of fate to the confines of blackdespair, and into the vortex of galling misery.'"

"Poetical!" said Frere.

"'I am just like a gigantic tree of the forest which has stood many a wintryblast, and stormy tempest, but now, alas! I am become a withered trunk, withall my greenest and tenderest branches lopped off. Though fast attaining middleage, I am not filling an envied and honoured post with credit and respect.No—I shall be soon wearing the garb of degradation, and the badge andbrand of infamy at P.A., which is, being interpreted, Port Arthur, the'Villain's Home'."

"Poor fellow!" said Sylvia.

"Touching, is it not?" assented Meekin, continuing—

"'I am, with heartrending sorrow and anguish of soul, ranged and mingledwith the Outcasts of Society. My present circ*mstances and pictures you willfind well and truly drawn in the 102nd Psalm, commencing with the 4th verse tothe 12th inclusive, which, my dear father, I request you will read attentivelybefore you proceed any further.'"

"Hullo!" said Frere, pulling out his pocket-book, "what's that? Read thosenumbers again." Mr. Meekin complied, and Frere grinned. "Go on," he said. "I'llshow you something in that letter directly."

"'Oh, my dear father, avoid, I beg of you, the reading of profane books. Letyour mind dwell upon holy things, and assiduously study to grow in grace. Psalmlxxiii 2. Yet I have hope even in this, my desolate condition. Psalm xxxv 18."For the Lord our God is merciful, and inclineth His ear unto pity".'"

"Blasphemous dog!" said Vickers. "You don't believe all that, Meekin, doyou?" The parson reproved him gently. "Wait a moment, sir, until I havefinished."

"'Party spirit runs very high, even in prison in Van Diemen's Land. I amsorry to say that a licentious press invariably evinces a very great degree ofcontumely, while the authorities are held in respect by all well-disposedpersons, though it is often endeavoured by some to bring on them the hatred andcontempt of prisoners. But I am glad to tell you that all their efforts arewithout avail; but, nevertheless, do not read in any colonial newspaper. Thereis so much scurrility and vituperation in their productions.'"

"That's for your benefit, Frere," said Vickers, with a smile. "You rememberwhat was said about your presence at the race meetings?"

"Of course," said Frere. "Artful scoundrel! Go on, Mr. Meekin, pray."

"'I am aware that you will hear accounts of cruelty and tyranny, said, bythe malicious and the evil-minded haters of the Government and Governmentofficials, to have been inflicted by gaolers on convicts. To be candid, this isnot the dreadful place it has been represented to be by vindictive writers.Severe flogging and heavy chaining is sometimes used, no doubt, but only inrare cases; and nominal punishments are marked out by law for slight breachesof discipline. So far as I have an opportunity of judging, the lash is neverbestowed unless merited.'"

"As far as he is concerned, I don't doubt it!" said Frere, cracking awalnut.

"'The texts of Scripture quoted by our chaplain have comforted me much, andI have much to be grateful for; for after the rash attempt I made to secure myfreedom, I have reason to be thankful for the mercy shown to me.Death—dreadful death of soul and body—would have been my portion;but, by the mercy of Omnipotence, I have been spared to repentance—Johniii. I have now come to bitterness. The chaplain, a pious gentleman, says itnever really pays to steal. "Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, whereneither moth nor rust doth corrupt." Honesty is the best policy, I amconvinced, and I would not for £1,000 repeat my evil courses—Psalmxxxviii 14. When I think of the happy days I once passed with good Mr. Blicks,in the old house in Blue Anchor Yard, and reflect that since that happy time Ihave recklessly plunged in sin, and stolen goods and watches, studs, rings, andjewellery, become, indeed, a common thief, I tremble with remorse, and fly toprayer—Psalm v. Oh what sinners we are! Let me hope that now I, by God'sblessing placed beyond temptation, will live safely, and that some day I evenmay, by the will of the Lord Jesus, find mercy for my sins. Some kind ofmadness has method in it, but madness of sin holds us without escape. Such is,dear father, then, my hope and trust for my remaining life here—Psalm c74. I owe my bodily well-being to Captain Maurice Frere, who was good enough tospeak of my conduct in reference to the Osprey, when, with Shiers, Barker, andothers, we captured that vessel. Pray for Captain Frere, my dear father. He isa good man, and though his public duty is painful and trying to his feelings,yet, as a public functionary, he could not allow his private feelings, whetherof mercy or revenge, to step between him and his duty.'"

"Confound the rascal!" said Frere, growing crimson.

"'Remember me most affectionately to Sarah and little William, and allfriends who yet cherish the recollection of me, and bid them take warning by myfate, and keep from evil courses. A good conscience is better than gold, and noamount can compensate for the misery incident to a return to crime. Whether Ishall ever see you again, dear father, is more than uncertain; for my doom islife, unless the Government alter their plans concerning me, and allow me anopportunity to earn my freedom by hard work.

"'The blessing of God rest with you, my dear father, and that you may bewashed white in the blood of the Lamb is the prayer of your

"'Unfortunate Son,' "John Rex" 'P.S.—-Though your sins be as scarletthey shall be whiter than snow.'"

"Is that all?" said Frere.

"That is all, sir, and a very touching letter it is."

"So it is," said Frere. "Now let me have it a moment, Mr. Meekin."

He took the paper, and referring to the numbers of the texts which he hadwritten in his pocket-book, began to knit his brows over Mr. John Rex's impiousand hypocritical production. "I thought so," he said, at length. "Those textswere never written for nothing. It's an old trick, but cleverly done."

"What do you mean?" said Meekin. "Mean!" cries Frere, with a smile at hisown acuteness. "This precious composition contains a very gratifying piece ofintelligence for Mr. Blicks, whoever he is. Some receiver, I've no doubt. Lookhere, Mr. Meekin. Take the letter and this pencil, and begin at the first text.The 102nd Psalm, from the 4th verse to the 12th inclusive, doesn't he say? Verygood; that's nine verses, isn't it? Well, now, underscore nine consecutivewords from the second word immediately following the next text quoted, 'I havehope,' etc. Have you got it?"

"Yes," says Meekin, astonished, while all heads bent over the table.

"Well, now, his text is the eighteenth verse of the thirty-fifth Psalm,isn't it? Count eighteen words on, then underscore five consecutive ones.You've done that?"

"A moment—sixteen—seventeen—eighteen, 'authorities'."

"Count and score in the same way until you come to the word 'Texts'somewhere. Vickers, I'll trouble you for the claret."

"Yes," said Meekin, after a pause. "Here it is—'the texts of Scripturequoted by our chaplain'. But surely Mr. Frere—"

"Hold on a bit now," cries Frere. "What's the next quotation?—Johniii. That's every third word. Score every third word beginning with 'I'immediately following the text, now, until you come to a quotation. Got it? Howmany words in it?"

"'Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rustdoth corrupt'," said Meekin, a little scandalized. "Fourteen words."

"Count fourteen words on, then, and score the fourteenth. I'm up to thistext-quoting business."

"The word '£1000'," said Meekin. "Yes."

"Then there's another text. Thirty-eighth—isn't it?—Psalm andthe fourteenth verse. Do that the same way as the other—count fourteenwords, and then score eight in succession. Where does that bring you?"

"The fifth Psalm."

"Every fifth word then. Go on, my dear sir—go on. 'Method' of'escape', yes. The hundredth Psalm means a full stop. What verse? Seventy-four.Count seventy-four words and score."

There was a pause for a few minutes while Mr. Meekin counted. The letter hadreally turned out interesting.

"Read out your marked words now, Meekin. Let's see if I'm right." Mr. Meekinread with gradually crimsoning face:—

"'I have hope even in this my desolate condition...in prison Van Diemen'sLand...the authorities are held in...hatred and contempt of prisoners...read inany colonial newspaper...accounts of cruelty and tyranny...inflicted by gaolerson convicts...severe flogging and heavy chaining...for slight breaches ofdiscipline...I...come...the pious...it...pays...£1,000...in the old housein Blue Anchor Yard...stolen goods and watches studs rings andjewellery...are...now...placed...safely...I... will...find...some...method ofescape...then...for revenge.'"

"Well," said Maurice, looking round with a grin, "what do you think ofthat?"

"Most remarkable!" said Mr. Pounce.

"How did you find it out, Frere?"

"Oh, it's nothing," says Frere; meaning that it was a great deal. "I'vestudied a good many of these things, and this one is clumsy to some I've seen.But it's pious, isn't it, Meekin?"

Mr. Meekin arose in wrath.

"It's very ungracious on your part, Captain Frere. A capital joke, I have nodoubt; but permit me to say I do not like jesting on such matters. This poorfellow's letter to his aged father to be made the subject of heartlessmerriment, I confess I do not understand. It was confided to me in my sacredcharacter as a Christian pastor."

"That's just it. The fellows play upon the parsons, don't you know, andunder cover of your 'sacred character' play all kinds of pranks. How the dogmust have chuckled when he gave you that!"

"Captain Frere," said Mr. Meekin, changing colour like a chameleon withindignation and rage, "your interpretation is, I am convinced, an incorrectone. How could the poor man compose such an ingenious piece ofcryptography?"

"If you mean, fake up that paper," returned Frere, unconsciously droppinginto prison slang, "I'll tell you. He had a Bible, I suppose, while he waswriting?"

"I certainly permitted him the use of the Sacred Volume, Captain Frere. Ishould have judged it inconsistent with the character of my Office to haverefused it to him."

"Of course. And that's just where you parsons are always putting your footinto it. If you'd put your 'Office' into your pocket and open your eyes abit—"

"Maurice! My dear Maurice!"

"I beg your pardon, Meekin," says Maurice, with clumsy apology; "but I knowthese fellows. I've lived among 'em, I came out in a ship with 'em, I've talkedwith 'em, and drank with 'em, and I'm down to all their moves, don't you see.The Bible is the only book they get hold of, and texts are the only bits oflearning ever taught 'm, and being chockfull of villainy and plots andconspiracies, what other book should they make use of to aid their infernalschemes but the one that the chaplain has made a text book for 'em?" AndMaurice rose in disgust, not unmixed with self-laudation.

"Dear me, it is really very terrible," says Meekin, who was not ill-meaning,but only self-complacent—"very terrible indeed."

"But unhappily true," said Mr. Pounce. "An olive? Thanks."

"Upon me soul!" burst out honest McNab, "the hail seestem seems to be maistill-calculated tae advance the wark o' reeformation."

"Mr. McNab, I'll trouble you for the port," said equally honest Vickers,bound hand and foot in the chains of the rules of the services. And so, whatseemed likely to become a dangerous discussion upon convict discipline, wasstifled judiciously at the birth. But Sylvia, prompted, perhaps, by curiosity,perhaps by a desire to modify the parson's chagrin, in passing Mr. Meekin, tookup the "confession," that lay unopened beside his wine glass, and bore itoff.

"Come, Mr. Meekin," said Vickers, when the door closed behind the ladies,"help yourself. I am sorry the letter turned out so strangely, but you may relyon Frere, I assure you. He knows more about convicts than any man on theisland."

"I see, Captain Frere, that you have studied the criminal classes."

"So I have, my dear sir, and know every turn and twist among 'em. I tell youmy maxim. It's some French fellow's, too, I believe, but that don'tmatter—divide to conquer. Set all the dogs spying on each other."

"Oh!" said Meekin. "It's the only way. Why, my dear sir, if the prisonerswere as faithful to each other as we are, we couldn't hold the island a week.It's just because no man can trust his neighbour that every mutiny falls to theground."

"I suppose it must be so," said poor Meekin.

"It is so; and, by George, sir, if I had my way, I'd have it so that noprisoner should say a word to his right hand man, but his left hand man shouldtell me of it. I'd promote the men that peached, and make the beggars their ownwarders. Ha, ha!"

"But such a course, Captain Frere, though perhaps useful in a certain way,would surely produce harm. It would excite the worst passions of our fallennature, and lead to endless lying and tyranny. I'm sure it would."

"Wait a bit," cries Frere. "Perhaps one of these days I'll get a chance, andthen I'll try it. Convicts! By the Lord Harry, sir, there's only one way totreat 'em; give 'em tobacco when they behave 'emselves, and flog 'em when theydon't."

"Terrible!" says the clergyman with a shudder. "You speak of them as if theywere wild beasts."

"So they are," said Maurice Frere, calmly.

CHAPTER X. WHAT BECAME OF THE MUTINEERS OF THE "OSPREY"

At the bottom of the long luxuriant garden-ground was a rustic seat abuttingupon the low wall that topped the lane. The branches of the English trees(planted long ago) hung above it, and between their rustling boughs one couldsee the reach of the silver river. Sitting with her face to the bay and herback to the house, Sylvia opened the manuscript she had carried off fromMeekin, and began to read. It was written in a firm, large hand, andheaded—

"A NARRATIVE OF THE SUFFERINGS AND ADVENTURES OF CERTAIN OF THE TEN CONVICTSWHO SEIZED THE BRIG OSPREY, AT MACQUARIE HARBOUR, IN VAN DIEMEN'S LAND, RELATEDBY ONE OF THE SAID CONVICTS WHILE LYING UNDER SENTENCE FOR THIS OFFENCE IN THEGAOL AT HOBART TOWN."

Sylvia, having read this grandiloquent sentence, paused for a moment. Thestory of the mutiny, which had been the chief event of her childhood, laybefore her, and it seemed to her that, were it related truly, she wouldcomprehend something strange and terrible, which had been for many years ashadow upon her memory. Longing, and yet fearing, to proceed, she held thepaper, half unfolded, in her hand, as, in her childhood, she had held ajar thedoor of some dark room, into which she longed and yet feared to enter. Hertimidity lasted but an instant.

*

"When orders arrived from head-quarters to break up the penal settlement ofMacquarie Harbour, the Commandant (Major Vickers, —th Regiment) and mostof the prisoners embarked on board a colonial vessel, and set sail for HobartTown, leaving behind them a brig that had been built at Macquarie Harbour, tobe brought round after them, and placing Captain Maurice Frere in command. Leftaboard her was Mr. Bates, who had acted as pilot at the settlement, also foursoldiers, and ten prisoners, as a crew to work the vessel. The Commandant'swife and child were also aboard."

*

"How strangely it reads," thought the girl.

*

"On the 12th of January, 1834, we set sail, and in the afternoon anchoredsafely outside the Gates; but a breeze setting in from the north-west caused aswell on the Bar, and Mr. Bates ran back to Wellington Bay. We remained thereall next day; and in the afternoon Captain Frere took two soldiers and a boat,and went a-fishing. There were then only Mr. Bates and the other two soldiersaboard, and it was proposed by William Cheshire to seize the vessel. I was atfirst unwilling, thinking that loss of life might ensue; but Cheshire and theothers, knowing that I was acquainted with navigation—having in happierdays lived much on the sea—threatened me if I refused to join. A song wasstarted in the folksle, and one of the soldiers, coming to listen to it, wasseized, and Lyon and Riley then made prisoner of the sentry. Forced thus into aproject with which I had at first but little sympathy, I felt my heart leap atthe prospect of freedom, and would have sacrificed all to obtain it. Maddenedby the desperate hopes that inspired me, I from that moment assumed the commandof my wretched companions; and honestly think that, however culpable I may havebeen in the eyes of the law, I prevented them from the display of a violence towhich their savage life had unhappily made them but too accustomed."

*

"Poor fellow," said Sylvia, beguiled by Master Rex's specious paragraphs, "Ithink he was not to blame."

*

"Mr. Bates was below in the cabin, and on being summoned by Cheshire tosurrender, with great courage attempted a defence. Barker fired at him throughthe skylight, but fearful of the lives of the Commandant's wife and child, Istruck up his musket, and the ball passed through the mouldings of the sternwindows. At the same time, the soldiers whom we had bound in the folksle forcedup the hatch and came on deck. Cheshire shot the first one, and struck theother with his clubbed musket. The wounded man lost his footing, and the briglurching with the rising tide, he fell into the sea. This was—by theblessing of God—the only life lost in the whole affair.

"Mr. Bates, seeing now that we had possession of the deck, surrendered, uponpromise that the Commandant's wife and child should be put ashore in safety. Idirected him to take such matters as he needed, and prepared to lower thejolly-boat. As she swung off the davits, Captain Frere came alongside in thewhale-boat, and gallantly endeavoured to board us, but the boat drifted pastthe vessel. I was now determined to be free—indeed, the minds of all onboard were made up to carry through the business—and hailing thewhale-boat, swore to fire into her unless she surrendered. Captain Frererefused, and was for boarding us again, but the two soldiers joined with us,and prevented his intention. Having now got the prisoners into the jolly-boat,we transferred Captain Frere into her, and being ourselves in the whale-boat,compelled Captain Frere and Mr. Bates to row ashore. We then took thejolly-boat in tow, and returned to the brig, a strict watch being kept for fearthat they should rescue the vessel from us.

"At break of day every man was upon deck, and a consultation took placeconcerning the parting of the provisions. Cheshire was for leaving them tostarve, but Lesly, Shiers, and I held out for an equal division. After a longand violent controversy, Humanity gained the day, and the provisions were putinto the whale-boat, and taken ashore. Upon the receipt of the provisions, Mr.Bates thus expressed himself: 'Men, I did not for one moment expect such kindtreatment from you, regarding the provisions you have now brought ashore forus, out of so little which there was on board. When I consider your presentundertaking, without a competent navigator, and in a leaky vessel, yoursituation seems most perilous; therefore I hope God will prove kind to you, andpreserve you from the manifold dangers you may have to encounter on the stormyocean.' Mrs. Vickers also was pleased to say that I had behaved kindly to her,that she wished me well, and that when she returned to Hobart Town she wouldspeak in my favour. They then cheered us on our departure, wishing we might beprosperous on account of our humanity in sharing the provisions with them.

"Having had breakfast, we commenced throwing overboard the light cargo whichwas in the hold, which employed us until dinnertime. After dinner we ran out asmall kedge-anchor with about one hundred fathoms of line, and having weighedanchor, and the tide being slack, we hauled on the kedge-line, and succeeded inthis manner by kedging along, and we came to two islands, called the Cap andBonnet. The whole of us then commenced heaving the brig short, sending thewhale-boat to take her in tow, after we had tripped the anchor. By this meanswe got her safe across the Bar. Scarcely was this done when a light breezesprang up from the south-west, and firing a musket to apprize the party we hadleft of our safety, we made sail and put out to sea."

Having read thus far, Sylvia paused in an agony of recollection. Sheremembered the firing of the musket, and that her mother had wept over her. Butbeyond this all was uncertainty. Memories slipped across her mind likeshadows—she caught at them, and they were gone. Yet the reading of thisstrange story made her nerves thrill. Despite the hypocritical grandiloquenceand affected piety of the narrative, it was easy to see that, save some warpingof facts to make for himself a better case, and to extol the courage of thegaolers who had him at their mercy, the narrator had not attempted to betterhis tale by the invention of perils. The history of the desperate project thathad been planned and carried out five years before was related with grimsimplicity which (because it at once bears the stamp of truth, and forces theimagination of the reader to supply the omitted details of horror), is moreeffective to inspire sympathy than elaborate description. The very barrennessof the narration was hideously suggestive, and the girl felt her heart beatquicker as her poetic intellect rushed to complete the terrible picturesketched by the convict. She saw it all—the blue sea, the burning sun,the slowly moving ship, the wretched company on the shore; she heard—Wasthat a rustling in the bushes below her? A bird! How nervous she wasgrowing!

"Being thus fairly rid—as we thought—of our prison life, wecheerfully held consultation as to our future course. It was my intention toget among the islands in the South Seas, and scuttling the brig, to passourselves off among the natives as shipwrecked seamen, trusting to God's mercythat some homeward bound vessel might at length rescue us. With this view, Imade James Lesly first mate, he being an experienced mariner, and preparedmyself, with what few instruments we had, to take our departure from BirchesRock. Having hauled the whale-boat alongside, we stove her, together with thejolly-boat, and cast her adrift. This done, I parted the landsmen with theseamen, and, steering east south-east, at eight p.m. we set our first watch. Inlittle more than an hour after this came on a heavy gale from the south-west.I, and others of the landsmen, were violently sea-sick, and Lesly had somedifficulty in handling the brig, as the boisterous weather called for two menat the helm. In the morning, getting upon deck with difficulty, I found thatthe wind had abated, but upon sounding the well discovered much water in thehold. Lesly rigged the pumps, but the starboard one only could be made to work.From that time there were but two businesses aboard—from the pump to thehelm. The gale lasted two days and a night, the brig running under close-reefedtopsails, we being afraid to shorten sail lest we might be overtaken by somepursuing vessel, so strong was the terror of our prison upon us.

"On the 16th, at noon, I again forced myself on deck, and taking a meridianobservation, altered the course of the brig to east and by south, wishing torun to the southward of New Zealand, out of the usual track of shipping; andhaving a notion that, should our provisions hold out, we might make the SouthAmerican coast, and fall into Christian hands. This done, I was compelled toretire below, and for a week lay in my berth as one at the last gasp. At timesI repented my resolution, Fair urging me to bestir myself, as the men were notsatisfied with our course. On the 21st a mutiny occurred, led by Lyons, whoasserted we were heading into the Pacific, and must infallibly perish. Thisdisaffected man, though ignorant of navigation, insisted upon steering to thesouth, believing that we had run to the northward of the Friendly Islands, andwas for running the ship ashore and beseeching the protection of the natives.Lesly in vain protested that a southward course would bring us into icefields.Barker, who had served on board a whaler, strove to convince the mutineers thatthe temperature of such latitudes was too warm for such an error to escape us.After much noise, Lyons rushed to the helm, and Russen, drawing one of thepistols taken from Mr. Bates, shot him dead, upon which the others returned totheir duty. This dreadful deed was, I fear, necessary to the safety of thebrig; and had it occurred on board a vessel manned by free-men, would have beenapplauded as a stern but needful measure.

"Forced by these tumults upon deck, I made a short speech to the crew, andconvinced them that I was competent to perform what I had promised to do,though at the time my heart inwardly failed me, and I longed for some sign ofland. Supported at each arm by Lesly and Barker, I took an observation, andaltered our course to north by east, the brig running eleven knots an hourunder single-reefed topsails, and the pumps hard at work. So we ran until the31st of January, when a white squall took us, and nearly proved fatal to allaboard.

"Lesly now committed a great error, for, upon the brig righting (she wasthrown upon her beam ends, and her spanker boom carried away), he commanded tofurl the fore-top sail, strike top-gallant yards, furl the main course, andtake a reef in the maintopsail, leaving her to scud under single-reefedmaintopsail and fore-sail. This caused the vessel to leak to that degree that Idespaired of reaching land in her, and prayed to the Almighty to send us speedyassistance. For nine days and nights the storm continued, the men being utterlyexhausted. One of the two soldiers whom we had employed to fish the two piecesof the spanker boom, with some quartering that we had, was washed overboard anddrowned. Our provision was now nearly done, but the gale abating on the ninthday, we hastened to put provisions on the launch. The sea was heavy, and wewere compelled to put a purchase on the fore and main yards, with preventers towindward, to ease the launch in going over the side. We got her fairly afloatat last, the others battening down the hatches in the brig. Having dressedourselves in the clothes of Captain Frere and the pilot, we left the brig atsundown, lying with her channel plates nearly under water.

"The wind freshening during the night, our launch, which might, indeed, betermed a long-boat, having been fitted with mast, bowsprit, and main boom,began to be very uneasy, shipping two seas one after the other. The plan wecould devise was to sit, four of us about, in the stern sheets, with our backsto the sea, to prevent the water pooping us. This itself was enough to exhaustthe strongest men. The day, however, made us some amends for the dreadfulnight. Land was not more than ten miles from us; approaching as nearly as wecould with safety, we hauled our wind, and ran along in, trusting to find someharbour. At half-past two we sighted a bay of very curious appearance, havingtwo large rocks at the entrance, resembling pyramids. Shiers, Russen, and Fairlanded, in hopes of discovering fresh water, of which we stood much in need.Before long they returned, stating that they had found an Indian hut, inside ofwhich were some rude earthenware vessels. Fearful of surprise, we lay off theshore all that night, and putting into the bay very early in the morning,killed a seal. This was the first fresh meat I had tasted for four years. Itseemed strange to eat it under such circ*mstances. We cooked the flippers,heart, and liver for breakfast, giving some to a cat which we had taken with usout of the brig, for I would not, willingly, allow even that animal to perish.After breakfast, we got under weigh; and we had scarcely been out half an hourwhen we had a fresh breeze, which carried us along at the rate of seven knotsan hour, running from bay to bay to find inhabitants. Steering along the shore,as the sun went down, we suddenly heard the bellowing of a bullock, and JamesBarker, whom, from his violent conduct, I thought incapable of such sentiment,burst into tears.

"In about two hours we perceived great fires on the beach and let go anchorin nineteen fathoms of water. We lay awake all that night. In the morning, werowed further inshore, and moored the boat to some seaweed. As soon as theinhabitants caught sight of us, they came down to the beach. I distributedneedles and thread among the Indians, and on my saying 'Valdivia,' a womaninstantly pointed towards a tongue of land to the southward, holding up threefingers, and crying 'leaghos'! which I conjectured to be three leagues; thedistance we afterwards found it to be.

"About three o'clock in the afternoon, we weathered the point pointed out bythe woman, and perceived a flagstaff and a twelve-gun battery under our lee. Inow divided among the men the sum of six pounds ten shillings that I had foundin Captain Frere's cabin, and made another and more equal distribution of theclothing. There were also two watches, one of which I gave to Lesly, and keptthe other for myself. It was resolved among us to say that we were part crew ofthe brig Julia, bound for China and wrecked in the South Seas. Upon landing atthe battery, we were heartily entertained, though we did not understand oneword of what they said. Next morning it was agreed that Lesly, Barker, Shiers,and Russen should pay for a canoe to convey them to the town, which was ninemiles up the river; and on the morning of the 6th March they took theirdeparture. On the 9th March, a boat, commanded by a lieutenant, came down withorders that the rest of us should be conveyed to town; and we accordinglylaunched the boat under convoy of the soldiers, and reached the town the sameevening, in some trepidation. I feared lest the Spaniards had obtained a clueas to our real character, and was not deceived—the surviving soldierhaving betrayed us. This fellow was thus doubly a traitor—first, indeserting his officer, and then in betraying his comrades.

"We were immediately escorted to prison, where we found our four companions.Some of them were for brazening out the story of shipwreck, but knowing howconfused must necessarily be our accounts, were we examined separately, Ipersuaded them that open confession would be our best chance of safety. On the14th we were taken before the Intendente or Governor, who informed us that wewere free, on condition that we chose to live within the limits of the town. Atthis intelligence I felt my heart grow light, and only begged in the name of mycompanions that we might not be given up to the British Government; 'ratherthan which,' said I, 'I would beg to be shot dead in the palace square.' TheGovernor regarded us with tears in his eyes, and spoke as follows: 'My poormen, do not think that I would take that advantage over you. Do not make anattempt to escape, and I will be your friend, and should a vessel come tomorrowto demand you, you shall find I will be as good as my word. All I have toimpress upon you is, to beware of intemperance, which is very prevalent in thiscountry, and when you find it convenient, to pay Government the money that wasallowed you for subsistence while in prison.'

"The following day we all procured employment in launching a vessel of threehundred tons burden, and my men showed themselves so active that the owner saidhe would rather have us than thirty of his own countrymen; which saying pleasedthe Governor, who was there with almost the whole of the inhabitants and awhole band of music, this vessel having been nearly three years on the stocks.After she was launched, the seamen amongst us helped to fit her out, being paidfifteen dollars a month, with provisions on board. As for myself, I speedilyobtained employment in the shipbuilder's yard, and subsisted by honestindustry, almost forgetting, in the unwonted pleasures of freedom, the sadreverse of fortune which had befallen me. To think that I, who had mingledamong gentlemen and scholars, should be thankful to labour in a shipwright'syard by day, and sleep on a bundle of hides by night! But this is personalmatter, and need not be obtruded.

"In the same yard with me worked the soldier who had betrayed us, and Icould not but regard it as a special judgment of Heaven when he one day fellfrom a great height and was taken up for dead, dying in much torment in a fewhours. The days thus passed on in comparative happiness until the 20th of May,1836, when the old Governor took his departure, regretted by all theinhabitants of Valdivia, and the Achilles, a one-and-twenty-gun brig of war,arrived with the new Governor. One of the first acts of this gentleman was tosell our boat, which was moored at the back of Government-house. Thisproceeding looked to my mind indicative of ill-will; and, fearful lest theGovernor should deliver us again into bondage, I resolved to make my escapefrom the place. Having communicated my plans to Barker, Lesly, Riley, Shiers,and Russen, I offered the Governor to get built for him a handsome whale-boat,making the iron work myself. The Governor consented, and in a little more thana fortnight we had completed a four-oared whale-boat, capable of weatheringeither sea or storm. We fitted her with sails and provisions in the Governor'sname, and on the 4th of July, being a Saturday night, we took our departurefrom Valdivia, dropping down the river shortly after sunset. Whether theGovernor, disgusted at the trick we had played him, decided not to pursue us,or whether—as I rather think—our absence was not discovered untilthe Monday morning, when we were beyond reach of capture, I know not, but wegot out to sea without hazard, and, taking accurate bearings, ran for theFriendly Islands, as had been agreed upon amongst us.

"But it now seemed that the good fortune which had hitherto attended us haddeserted us, for after crawling for four days in sultry weather, there fell adead calm, and we lay like a log upon the sea for forty-eight hours. For threedays we remained in the midst of the ocean, exposed to the burning rays of thesun, in a boat without water or provisions. On the fourth day, just as we hadresolved to draw lots to determine who should die for the sustenance of theothers, we were picked up by an opium clipper returning to Canton. The captain,an American, was most kind to us, and on our arrival at Canton, a subscriptionwas got up for us by the British merchants of that city, and a free passage toEngland obtained for us. Russen, however, getting in drink, made statementswhich brought suspicion upon us. I had imposed upon the Consul with afictitious story of a wreck, but had stated that my name was Wilson, forgettingthat the sextant which had been preserved in the boat had Captain Bates's nameengraved upon it. These circ*mstances together caused sufficient doubts in theConsul's mind to cause him to give directions that, on our arrival in London,we were to be brought before the Thames Police Court. There being no evidenceagainst us, we should have escaped, had not a Dr. Pine, who had been surgeon onboard the Malabar transport, being in the Court, recognized me and swore to myidentity. We were remanded, and, to complete the chain of evidence, Mr. Capon,the Hobart Town gaoler, was, strangely enough, in London at the time, andidentified us all. Our story was then made public, and Barker and Lesly,turning Queen's evidence against Russen, he was convicted of the murder ofLyons, and executed. We were then placed on board the Leviathan hulk, andremained there until shipped in the Lady Jane, which was chartered, withconvicts, for Van Diemen's Land, in order to be tried in the colony, where theoffence was committed, for piratically seizing the brig Osprey, and arrivedhere on the 15th December, 1838."

*

Coming, breathless, to the conclusion of this wonderful relation, Sylviasuffered her hand to fall into her lap, and sat meditative. The history of thisdesperate struggle for liberty was to her full of vague horror. She had neverbefore realized among what manner of men she had lived. The sullen creatureswho worked in the chain-gangs, or pulled in the boats—their facesbrutalized into a uniform blankness—must be very different men from JohnRex and his companions. Her imagination pictured the voyage in the leaky brig,the South American slavery, the midnight escape, the desperate rowing, thelong, slow agony of starvation, and the heart-sickness that must have followedupon recapture and imprisonment. Surely the punishment of "penal servitude"must have been made very terrible for men to dare such hideous perils to escapefrom it. Surely John Rex, the convict, who, alone, and prostrated by sickness,quelled a mutiny and navigated a vessel through a storm-ravaged ocean, mustpossess qualities which could be put to better use than stone-quarrying. Wasthe opinion of Maurice Frere the correct one after all, and were these convictmonsters gifted with unnatural powers of endurance, only to be subdued andtamed by unnatural and inhuman punishments of lash and chain? Her fanciesgrowing amid the fast gathering gloom, she shuddered as she guessed to whatextremities of evil might such men proceed did an opportunity ever come to themto retaliate upon their gaolers. Perhaps beneath each mask of servility andsullen fear that was the ordinary prison face, lay hid a courage and a despairas mighty as that which sustained those ten poor wanderers over the PacificOcean. Maurice had told her that these people had their secret signs, theirsecret language. She had just seen a specimen of the skill with which this veryRex—still bent upon escape—could send a hidden message to hisfriends beneath the eyes of his gaolers. What if the whole island was but onesmouldering volcano of revolt and murder—the whole convict population butone incarnated conspiracy, bound together by crime and suffering! Terrible tothink of—yet not impossible.

Oh, how strangely must the world have been civilized, that this most lovelycorner of it must needs be set apart as a place of banishment for the monstersthat civilization had brought forth and bred! She cast her eyes around, and allbeauty seemed blotted out from the scene before her. The graceful foliagemelting into indistinctness in the gathering twilight, appeared to her horribleand treacherous. The river seemed to flow sluggishly, as though thickened withblood and tears. The shadow of the trees seemed to hold lurking shapes ofcruelty and danger. Even the whispering breeze bore with it sighs, and threats,and mutterings of revenge. Oppressed by a terror of loneliness, she hastilycaught up the manuscript, and turned to seek the house, when, as if summonedfrom the earth by the power of her own fears, a ragged figure barred herpassage.

To the excited girl this apparition seemed the embodiment of the unknownevil she had dreaded. She recognized the yellow clothing, and marked the eagerhands outstretched to seize her. Instantly upon her flashed the story thatthree days since had set the prison-town agog. The desperado of Port Arthur,the escaped mutineer and murderer, was before her, with unchained arms, free towreak his will of her.

"Sylvia! It is you! Oh, at last! I have escaped, and come to ask—What?Do you not know me?"

Pressing both hands to her bosom, she stepped back a pace, speechless withterror.

"I am Rufus Dawes," he said, looking in her face for the grateful smile ofrecognition that did not come—"Rufus Dawes."

The party at the house had finished their wine, and, sitting on the broadverandah, were listening to some gentle dullness of the clergyman, when therebroke upon their ears a cry.

"What's that?" said Vickers.

Frere sprang up, and looked down the garden. He saw two figures that seemedto struggle together. One glance was enough, and, with a shout, he leapt theflower-beds, and made straight at the escaped prisoner.

Rufus Dawes saw him coming, but, secure in the protection of the girl whoowed to him so much, he advanced a step nearer, and loosing his respectfulclasp of her hand, caught her dress.

"Oh, help, Maurice, help!" cried Sylvia again.

Into the face of Rufus Dawes came an expression of horror-strickenbewilderment. For three days the unhappy man had contrived to keep life andfreedom, in order to get speech with the one being who, he thought, cherishedfor him some affection. Having made an unparalleled escape from the midst ofhis warders, he had crept to the place where lived the idol of his dreams,braving recapture, that he might hear from her two words of justice andgratitude. Not only did she refuse to listen to him, and shrink from him asfrom one accursed, but, at the sound of his name, she summoned his deadliestfoe to capture him. Such monstrous ingratitude was almost beyond belief. She,too,—the child he had nursed and fed, the child for whom he had given uphis hard-earned chance of freedom and fortune, the child of whom he haddreamed, the child whose image he had worshipped—she, too, against him!Then there was no justice, no Heaven, no God! He loosed his hold of her dress,and, regardless of the approaching footsteps, stood speechless, shaking fromhead to foot. In another instant Frere and McNab flung themselves upon him, andhe was borne to the ground. Though weakened by starvation, he shook them offwith scarce an effort, and, despite the servants who came hurrying from thealarmed house, might even then have turned and made good his escape. But heseemed unable to fly. His chest heaved convulsively, great drops of sweatbeaded his white face, and from his eyes tears seemed about to break. For aninstant his features worked convulsively, as if he would fain invoke upon thegirl, weeping on her father's shoulder, some hideous curse. But no wordscame—only thrusting his hand into his breast, with a supreme gesture ofhorror and aversion, he flung something from him. Then a profound sigh escapedhim, and he held out his hands to be bound.

There was something so pitiable about this silent grief that, as they ledhim away, the little group instinctively averted their faces, lest they shouldseem to triumph over him.

CHAPTER XI. A RELIC OF MACQUARIE HARBOUR.

"You must try and save him from further punishment," said Sylvia next day toFrere. "I did not mean to betray the poor creature, but I had made myselfnervous by reading that convict's story."

"You shouldn't read such rubbish," said Frere. "What's the use? I don'tsuppose a word of it's true."

"It must be true. I am sure it's true. Oh, Maurice, these are dreadful men.I thought I knew all about convicts, but I had no idea that such men as thesewere among them."

"Thank God, you know very little," said Maurice. "The servants you have hereare very different sort of fellows from Rex and Company."

"Oh, Maurice, I am so tired of this place. It's wrong, perhaps, with poorpapa and all, but I do wish I was somewhere out of the sight of chains. I don'tknow what has made me feel as I do."

"Come to Sydney," said Frere. "There are not so many convicts there. It wasarranged that we should go to Sydney, you know."

"For our honeymoon? Yes," said Sylvia, simply. "I know it was. But we arenot married yet."

"That's easily done," said Maurice.

"Oh, nonsense, sir! But I want to speak to you about this poor Dawes. Idon't think he meant any harm. It seems to me now that he was rather going toask for food or something, only I was so nervous. They won't hang him, Maurice,will they?"

"No," said Maurice. "I spoke to your father this morning. If the fellow istried for his life, you may have to give evidence, and so we came to theconclusion that Port Arthur again, and heavy irons, will meet the case. We gavehim another life sentence this morning. That will make the third he hashad."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. I sent him down aboard the schooner at once. He ought to be out ofthe river by this time." "Maurice, I have a strange feeling about thatman."

"Eh?" said Maurice.

"I seem to fear him, as if I knew some story about him, and yet didn't knowit."

"That's not very clear," said Maurice, forcing a laugh, "but don't let'stalk about him any more. We'll soon be far from Port Arthur and everybody init."

"Maurice," said she, caressingly, "I love you, dear. You'll always protectme against these men, won't you?"

Maurice kissed her. "You have not got over your fright, Sylvia," he said. "Isee I shall have to take a great deal of care of my wife."

"Of course," replied Sylvia.

And then the pair began to make love, or, rather, Maurice made it, andSylvia suffered him.

Suddenly her eye caught something. "What's that—there, on the groundby the fountain?" They were near the spot where Dawes had been seized the nightbefore. A little stream ran through the garden, and a Triton—of convictmanufacture—blew his horn in the middle of a—convictbuilt—rockery. Under the lip of the fountain lay a small packet. Frerepicked it up. It was made of soiled yellow cloth, and stitched evidently by aman's fingers. "It looks like a needle-case," said he.

"Let me see. What a strange-looking thing! Yellow cloth, too. Why, it mustbelong to a prisoner. Oh, Maurice, the man who was here last night!"

"Ay," says Maurice, turning over the packet, "it might have been his, sureenough."

"He seemed to fling something from him, I thought. Perhaps this is it!" saidshe, peering over his arm, in delicate curiosity. Frere, with something of ascowl on his brow, tore off the outer covering of the mysterious packet, anddisplayed a second envelope, of grey cloth—the "good-conduct" uniform.Beneath this was a piece, some three inches square, of stained and discolouredmerino, that had once been blue.

"Hullo!" says Frere. "Why, what's this?"

"It is a piece of a dress," says Sylvia.

It was Rufus Dawes's talisman—a portion of the frock she had worn atMacquarie Harbour, and which the unhappy convict had cherished as a sacredrelic for five weary years.

Frere flung it into the water. The running stream whirled it away. "Why didyou do that?" cried the girl, with a sudden pang of remorse for which she couldnot account. The shred of cloth, caught by a weed, lingered for an instant onthe surface of the water. Almost at the same moment, the pair, raising theireyes, saw the schooner which bore Rufus Dawes back to bondage glide past theopening of the trees and disappear. When they looked again for the strangerelic of the desperado of Port Arthur, it also had vanished.

CHAPTER XII. AT PORT ARTHUR.

The usual clanking and hammering was prevalent upon the stone jetty of PortArthur when the schooner bearing the returned convict, Rufus Dawes, ranalongside. On the heights above the esplanade rose the grim front of thesoldiers' barracks; beneath the soldiers' barracks was the long range of prisonbuildings with their workshops and tan-pits; to the left lay the Commandant'shouse, authoritative by reason of its embrasured terrace and guardian sentry;while the jetty, that faced the purple length of the "Island of the Dead,"swarmed with parti-coloured figures, clanking about their enforced business,under the muskets of their gaolers.

Rufus Dawes had seen this prospect before, had learnt by heart each beautyof rising sun, sparkling water, and wooded hill. From the hideously clean jettyat his feet, to the distant signal station, that, embowered in bloom, rearedits slender arms upwards into the cloudless sky, he knew it all. There was nocharm for him in the exquisite blue of the sea, the soft shadows of the hills,or the soothing ripple of the waves that crept voluptuously to the white breastof the shining shore. He sat with his head bowed down, and his hands claspedabout his knees, disdaining to look until they roused him.

"Hallo, Dawes!" says Warder Troke, halting his train of ironedyellow-jackets. "So you've come back again! Glad to see yer, Dawes! It seems anage since we had the pleasure of your company, Dawes!" At this pleasantry thetrain laughed, so that their irons clanked more than ever. They found it ofteninconvenient not to laugh at Mr. Troke's humour. "Step down here, Dawes, andlet me introduce you to your h'old friends. They'll be glad to see yer, won'tyer, boys? Why, bless me, Dawes, we thort we'd lost yer! We thort yer'd givenus the slip altogether, Dawes. They didn't take care of yer in Hobart Town, Iexpect, eh, boys? We'll look after yer here, Dawes, though. You won't bolt anymore."

"Take care, Mr. Troke," said a warning voice, "you're at it again! Let theman alone!"

By virtue of an order transmitted from Hobart Town, they had begun to attachthe dangerous prisoner to the last man of the gang, riveting the leg-irons ofthe pair by means of an extra link, which could be removed when necessary, butDawes had given no sign of consciousness. At the sound of the friendly tones,however, he looked up, and saw a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a shabbypepper-and-salt raiment, and wearing a black handkerchief knotted round histhroat. He was a stranger to him.

"I beg yer pardon, Mr. North," said Troke, sinking at once the bully in thesneak. "I didn't see yer reverence."

"A parson!" thought Dawes with disappointment, and dropped his eyes.

"I know that," returned Mr. North, coolly. "If you had, you would have beenall butter and honey. Don't trouble yourself to tell a lie; it's quiteunnecessary."

Dawes looked up again. This was a strange parson.

"What's your name, my man?" said Mr. North, suddenly, catching his eye.

Rufus Dawes had intended to scowl, but the tone, sharply authoritative,roused his automatic convict second nature, and he answered, almost despitehimself, "Rufus Dawes."

"Oh," said Mr. North, eyeing him with a curious air of expectation that hadsomething pitying in it. "This is the man, is it? I thought he was to go to theCoal Mines."

"So he is," said Troke, "but we hain't a goin' to send there for a fortnit,and in the meantime I'm to work him on the chain."

"Oh!" said Mr. North again. "Lend me your knife, Troke."

And then, before them all, this curious parson took a piece of tobacco outof his ragged pocket, and cut off a "chaw" with Mr. Troke's knife. Rufus Dawesfelt what he had not felt for three days—an interest in something. Hestared at the parson in unaffected astonishment. Mr. North perhaps mistook themeaning of his fixed stare, for he held out the remnant of tobacco to him.

The chain line vibrated at this, and bent forward to enjoy the vicariousdelight of seeing another man chew tobacco. Troke grinned with a silent mirththat betokened retribution for the favoured convict. "Here," said Mr. North,holding out the dainty morsel upon which so many eyes were fixed. Rufus Dawestook the tobacco; looked at it hungrily for an instant, and then—to theastonishment of everybody—flung it away with a curse.

"I don't want your tobacco," he said; "keep it."

From convict mouths went out a respectful roar of amazement, and Mr. Troke'seyes snapped with pride of outraged janitorship. "You ungrateful dog!" hecried, raising his stick.

Mr. North put up a hand. "That will do, Troke," he said; "I know yourrespect for the cloth. Move the men on again."

"Get on!" said Troke, rumbling oaths beneath his breath, and Dawes felt hisnewly-riveted chain tug. It was some time since he had been in a chain-gang,and the sudden jerk nearly overbalanced him. He caught at his neighbour, andlooking up, met a pair of black eyes which gleamed recognition. His neighbourwas John Rex. Mr. North, watching them, was struck by the resemblance the twomen bore to each other. Their height, eyes, hair, and complexion were similar.Despite the difference in name they might be related. "They might be brothers,"thought he. "Poor devils! I never knew a prisoner refuse tobacco before." Andhe looked on the ground for the despised portion. But in vain. John Rex,oppressed by no foolish sentiment, had picked it up and put it in hismouth.

So Rufus Dawes was relegated to his old life again, and came back to hisprison with the hatred of his kind, that his prison had bred in him, increaseda hundred-fold. It seemed to him that the sudden awakening had dazed him, thatthe flood of light so suddenly let in upon his slumbering soul had blinded hiseyes, used so long to the sweetly-cheating twilight. He was at first unable toapprehend the details of his misery. He knew only that his dream-child wasalive and shuddered at him, that the only thing he loved and trusted hadbetrayed him, that all hope of justice and mercy had gone from him for ever,that the beauty had gone from earth, the brightness from Heaven, and that hewas doomed still to live. He went about his work, unheedful of the jests ofTroke, ungalled by his irons, unmindful of the groans and laughter about him.His magnificent muscles saved him from the lash; for the amiable Troke tried tobreak him down in vain. He did not complain, he did not laugh, he did not weep.His "mate" Rex tried to converse with him, but did not succeed. In the midst ofone of Rex's excellent tales of London dissipation, Rufus Dawes would sighwearily. "There's something on that fellow's mind," thought Rex, prone to watchthe signs by which the soul is read. "He has some secret which weighs uponhim."

It was in vain that Rex attempted to discover what this secret might be. Toall questions concerning his past life—however artfully put—RufusDawes was dumb. In vain Rex practised all his arts, called up all his graces ofmanner and speech—and these were not few—to fascinate the silentman and win his confidence. Rufus Dawes met his advances with a cynicalcarelessness that revealed nothing; and, when not addressed, held a gloomysilence. Galled by this indifference, John Rex had attempted to practise thoseingenious arts of torment by which Gabbett, Vetch, or other leading spirits ofthe gang asserted their superiority over their quieter comrades. But he soonceased. "I have been longer in this hell than you," said Rufus Dawes, "and Iknow more of the devil's tricks than you can show me. You had best be quiet."Rex neglected the warning, and Rufus Dawes took him by the throat one day, andwould have strangled him, but that Troke beat off the angered man with afavourite bludgeon. Rex had a wholesome respect for personal prowess, and hadthe grace to admit the provocation to Troke. Even this instance of self-denialdid not move the stubborn Dawes. He only laughed. Then Rex came to aconclusion. His mate was plotting an escape. He himself cherished a notion ofthe kind, as did Gabbett and Vetch, but by common distrust no one ever gaveutterance to thoughts of this nature. It would be too dangerous. "He would be agood comrade for a rush," thought Rex, and resolved more firmly than ever toally himself to this dangerous and silent companion.

One question Dawes had asked which Rex had been able to answer: "Who is thatNorth?"

"A chaplain. He is only here for a week or so. There is a new one coming.North goes to Sydney. He is not in favour with the Bishop."

"How do you know?"

"By deduction," says Rex, with a smile peculiar to him. "He wears colouredclothes, and smokes, and doesn't patter Scripture. The Bishop dresses in black,detests tobacco, and quotes the Bible like a concordance. North is sent herefor a month, as a warming-pan for that ass Meekin. Ergo, the Bishop don't careabout North."

Jemmy Vetch, who was next to Rex, let the full weight of his portion oftree-trunk rest upon Gabbett, in order to express his unrestrained admirationof Mr. Rex's sarcasm. "Ain't the Dandy a one'er?" said he.

"Are you thinking of coming the pious?" asked Rex. "It's no good with North.Wait until the highly-intelligent Meekin comes. You can twist that worthysuccessor of the Apostles round your little finger!"

"Silence there!" cries the overseer. "Do you want me to report yer?"

Amid such diversions the days rolled on, and Rufus Dawes almost longed forthe Coal Mines. To be sent from the settlement to the Coal Mines, and from theCoal Mines to the settlement, was to these unhappy men a "trip". At Port Arthurone went to an out-station, as more fortunate people go to Queenscliff or theOcean Beach now-a-days for "change of air".

CHAPTER XIII. THE COMMANDANT'S BUTLER.

Rufus Dawes had been a fortnight at the settlement when a new-comer appearedon the chain-gang. This was a young man of about twenty years of age, thin,fair, and delicate. His name was Kirkland, and he belonged to what were knownas the "educated" prisoners. He had been a clerk in a banking house, and wastransported for embezzlement, though, by some, grave doubts as to his guiltwere entertained. The Commandant, Captain Burgess, had employed him as butlerin his own house, and his fate was considered a "lucky" one. So, doubtless, itwas, and might have been, had not an untoward accident occurred. CaptainBurgess, who was a bachelor of the "old school", confessed to an amiableweakness for blasphemy, and was given to condemning the convicts' eyes andlimbs with indiscriminate violence. Kirkland belonged to a Methodist family andowned a piety utterly out of place in that region. The language of Burgess madehim shudder, and one day he so far forgot himself and his place as to raise hishands to his ears. "My blank!" cried Burgess. "You blank blank, is that yourblank game? I'll blank soon cure you of that!" and forthwith ordered him to thechain-gang for "insubordination".

He was received with suspicion by the gang, who did not like white-handedprisoners. Troke, by way of experiment in human nature, perhaps, placed himnext to Gabbett. The day was got through in the usual way, and Kirkland felthis heart revive.

The toil was severe, and the companionship uncouth, but despite hisblistered hands and aching back, he had not experienced anything so veryterrible after all. When the muster bell rang, and the gang broke up, RufusDawes, on his silent way to his separate cell, observed a notable change ofcustom in the disposition of the new convict. Instead of placing him in a cellby himself, Troke was turning him into the yard with the others.

"I'm not to go in there?" says the ex-bank clerk, drawing back in dismayfrom the cloud of foul faces which lowered upon him.

"By the Lord, but you are, then!" says Troke. "The Governor says a night inthere'll take the starch out of ye. Come, in yer go."

"But, Mr. Troke—"

"Stow your gaff," says Troke, with another oath, and impatiently strikingthe lad with his thong—"I can't argue here all night. Get in." SoKirkland, aged twenty-two, and the son of Methodist parents, went in.

Rufus Dawes, among whose sinister memories this yard was numbered, sighed.So fierce was the glamour of the place, however, that when locked into hiscell, he felt ashamed for that sigh, and strove to erase the memory of it."What is he more than anybody else?" said the wretched man to himself, as hehugged his misery close.

About dawn the next morning, Mr. North—who, amongst other vagaries notapproved of by his bishop, had a habit of prowling about the prison atunofficial hours—was attracted by a dispute at the door of thedormitory.

"What's the matter here?" he asked.

"A prisoner refractory, your reverence," said the watchman. "Wants to comeout."

"Mr. North! Mr. North!" cried a voice, "for the love of God, let me out ofthis place!"

Kirkland, ghastly pale, bleeding, with his woollen shirt torn, and his blueeyes wide open with terror, was clinging to the bars.

"Oh, Mr. North! Mr. North! Oh, Mr. North! Oh, for God's sake, Mr.North!"

"What, Kirkland!" cried North, who was ignorant of the vengeance of theCommandant. "What do you do here?"

But Kirkland could do nothing but cry,—"Oh, Mr. North! For God's sake,Mr. North!" and beat on the bars with white and sweating hands.

"Let him out, watchman!" said North.

"Can't sir, without an order from the Commandant."

"I order you, sir!" North cried, indignant.

"Very sorry, your reverence; but your reverence knows that I daren't do sucha thing." "Mr. North!" screamed Kirkland. "Would you see me perish, body andsoul, in this place? Mr. North! Oh, you ministers of Christ—wolves insheep's clothing—you shall be judged for this!"

"Let him out!" cried North again, stamping his foot.

"It's no good," returned the gaoler. "I can't. If he was dying, Ican't."

North rushed away to the Commandant, and the instant his back was turned,Hailes, the watchman, flung open the door, and darted into the dormitory.

"Take that!" he cried, dealing Kirkland a blow on the head with his keys,that stretched him senseless. "There's more trouble with you bloody aristocratsthan enough. Lie quiet!"

The Commandant, roused from slumber, told Mr. North that Kirkland might stopwhere he was, and that he'd thank the chaplain not to wake him up in the middleof the night because a blank prisoner set up a blank howling.

"But, my good sir," protested North, restraining his impulse to overstep thebounds of modesty in his language to his superior officer, "you know thecharacter of the men in that ward. You can guess what that unhappy boy hassuffered."

"Impertinent young beggar!" said Burgess. "Do him good, curse him! Mr.North, I'm sorry you should have had the trouble to come here, but will you letme go to sleep?"

North returned to the prison disconsolately, found the dutiful Hailes at hispost, and all quiet.

"What's become of Kirkland?" he asked.

"Fretted hisself to sleep, yer reverence," said Hailes, in accents ofparental concern. "Poor young chap! It's hard for such young 'uns."

In the morning, Rufus Dawes, coming to his place on the chain-gang, wasstruck by the altered appearance of Kirkland. His face was of a greenish tint,and wore an expression of bewildered horror.

"Cheer up, man!" said Dawes, touched with momentary pity. "It's no goodbeing in the mopes, you know."

"What do they do if you try to bolt?" whispered Kirkland.

"Kill you," returned Dawes, in a tone of surprise at so preposterous aquestion.

"Thank God!" said Kirkland.

"Now then, Miss Nancy," said one of the men, "what's the matter with you!"Kirkland shuddered, and his pale face grew crimson.

"Oh," he said, "that such a wretch as I should live!"

"Silence!" cried Troke. "No. 44, if you can't hold your tongue I'll give yousomething to talk about. March!"

The work of the gang that afternoon was the carrying of some heavy logs tothe water-side, and Rufus Dawes observed that Kirkland was exhausted longbefore the task was accomplished. "They'll kill you, you little beggar!" saidhe, not unkindly. "What have you been doing to get into this scrape?"

"Have you ever been in that—that place I was in last night?" askedKirkland.

Rufus Dawes nodded.

"Does the Commandant know what goes on there?"

"I suppose so. What does he care?"

"Care! Man, do you believe in a God?" "No," said Dawes, "not here. Hold up,my lad. If you fall, we must fall over you, and then you're done for."

He had hardly uttered the words, when the boy flung himself beneath the log.In another instant the train would have been scrambling over his crushed body,had not Gabbett stretched out an iron hand, and plucked the would-be suicidefrom death.

"Hold on to me, Miss Nancy," said the giant, "I'm big enough to carrydouble."

Something in the tone or manner of the speaker affected Kirkland to disgust,for, spurning the offered hand, he uttered a cry and then, holding up his ironswith his hands, he started to run for the water.

"Halt! you young fool," roared Troke, raising his carbine. But Kirkland keptsteadily on for the river. Just as he reached it, however, the figure of Mr.North rose from behind a pile of stones. Kirkland jumped for the jetty, missedhis footing, and fell into the arms of the chaplain.

"You young vermin—you shall pay for this," cries Troke. "You'll see ifyou won't remember this day."

"Oh, Mr. North," says Kirkland, "why did you stop me? I'd better be deadthan stay another night in that place."

"You'll get it, my lad," said Gabbett, when the runaway was brought back."Your blessed hide'll feel for this, see if it don't."

Kirkland only breathed harder, and looked round for Mr. North, but Mr. Northhad gone. The new chaplain was to arrive that afternoon, and it was incumbenton him to be at the reception. Troke reported the ex-bank clerk that night toBurgess, and Burgess, who was about to go to dinner with the new chaplain,disposed of his case out of hand. "Tried to bolt, eh! Must stop that. Fiftylashes, Troke. Tell Macklewain to be ready—or stay, I'll tell himmyself—I'll break the young devil's spirit, blank him."

"Yes, sir," said Troke. "Good evening, sir."

"Troke—pick out some likely man, will you? That last fellow you hadought to have been tied up himself. His flogging wouldn't have killed aflea."

"You can't get 'em to warm one another, your honour," says Troke.

"They won't do it."

"Oh, yes, they will, though," says Burgess, "or I'll know the reason why. Iwon't have my men knocked up with flogging these rascals. If the scourger won'tdo his duty, tie him up, and give him five-and-twenty for himself. I'll be downin the morning myself if I can."

"Very good, your honour," says Troke.

Kirkland was put into a separate cell that night; and Troke, by way ofassuring him a good night's rest, told him that he was to have "fifty" in themorning. "And Dawes'll lay it on," he added. "He's one of the smartest men I'vegot, and he won't spare yer, yer may take your oath of that."

CHAPTER XIV. Mr. NORTH'S DISPOSITION.

"You will find this a terrible place, Mr. Meekin," said North to hissupplanter, as they walked across to the Commandant's to dinner. "It has mademe heartsick."

"I thought it was a little paradise," said Meekin. "Captain Frere says thatthe scenery is delightful." "So it is," returned North, looking askance, "butthe prisoners are not delightful."

"Poor, abandoned wretches," says Meekin, "I suppose not. How sweet themoonlight sleeps upon that bank! Eh!"

"Abandoned, indeed, by God and man—almost."

"Mr. North, Providence never abandons the most unworthy of His servants.Never have I seen the righteous forsaken, nor His seed begging their bread. Inthe valley of the shadow of death He is with us. His staff, you know, Mr.North. Really, the Commandant's house is charmingly situated!"

Mr. North sighed again. "You have not been long in the colony, Mr. Meekin. Idoubt—forgive me for expressing myself so freely—if you quite knowof our convict system."

"An admirable one! A most admirable one!" said Meekin. "There were a fewmatters I noticed in Hobart Town that did not quite please me—thefrequent use of profane language for instance—but on the whole I wasdelighted with the scheme. It is so complete."

North pursed up his lips. "Yes, it is very complete," he said; "almost toocomplete. But I am always in a minority when I discuss the question, so we willdrop it, if you please."

"If you please," said Meekin gravely. He had heard from the Bishop that Mr.North was an ill-conditioned sort of person, who smoked clay pipes, had beendetected in drinking beer out of a pewter pot, and had been heard to state thatwhite neck-cloths were of no consequence. The dinner went off successfully.Burgess—desirous, perhaps, of favourably impressing the chaplain whom theBishop delighted to honour—shut off his blasphemy for a while, and wasurbane enough. "You'll find us rough, Mr. Meekin," he said, "but you'll find us'all there' when we're wanted. This is a little kingdom in itself."

"Like Béranger's?" asked Meekin, with a smile. Captain Burgess hadnever heard of Béranger, but he smiled as if he had learnt his words byheart.

"Or like Sancho Panza's island," said North. "You remember how justice wasadministered there?"

"Not at this moment, sir," said Burgess, with dignity. He had been oftenoppressed by the notion that the Reverend Mr. North "chaffed" him. "Pray helpyourself to wine."

"Thank you, none," said North, filling a tumbler with water. "I have aheadache." His manner of speech and action was so awkward that a silence fellupon the party, caused by each one wondering why Mr. North should growconfused, and drum his fingers on the table, and stare everywhere but at thedecanter. Meekin—ever softly at his ease—was the first to speak."Have you many visitors, Captain Burgess?"

"Very few. Sometimes a party comes over with a recommendation from theGovernor, and I show them over the place; but, as a rule, we see no one butourselves."

"I asked," said Meekin, "because some friends of mine were thinking ofcoming."

"And who may they be?"

"Do you know Captain Frere?"

"Frere! I should say so!" returned Burgess, with a laugh, modelled uponMaurice Frere's own. "I was quartered with him at Sarah Island. So he's afriend of yours, eh?"

"I had the pleasure of meeting him in society. He is just married, youknow."

"Is he?" said Burgess. "The devil he is! I heard something about it,too."

"Miss Vickers, a charming young person. They are going to Sydney, whereCaptain Frere has some interest, and Frere thinks of taking Port Arthur on hisway down."

"A strange fancy for a honeymoon trip," said North.

"Captain Frere takes a deep interest in all relating to convict discipline,"went on Meekin, unheeding the interruption, "and is anxious that Mrs. Frereshould see this place."

"Yes, one oughtn't to leave the colony without seeing it," says Burgess;"it's worth seeing."

"So Captain Frere thinks. A romantic story, Captain Burgess. He saved herlife, you know."

"Ah! that was a queer thing, that mutiny," said Burgess. "We've got thefellows here, you know."

"I saw them tried at Hobart Town," said Meekin. "In fact, the ringleader,John Rex, gave me his confession, and I sent it to the Bishop."

"A great rascal," put in North. "A dangerous, scheming, cold—bloodedvillain."

"Well now!" said Meekin, with asperity, "I don't agree with you. Everybodyseems to be against that poor fellow—Captain Frere tried to make me thinkthat his letters contained a hidden meaning, but I don't believe they did. Heseems to me to be truly penitent for his offences—a misguided, but not ahypocritical man, if my knowledge of human nature goes for anything."

"I hope he is," said North. "I wouldn't trust him."

"Oh! there's no fear of him," said Burgess cheerily; "if he growsuproarious, we'll soon give him a touch of the cat."

"I suppose severity is necessary," returned Meekin; "though to my ears aflogging sounds a little distasteful. It is a brutal punishment."

"It's a punishment for brutes," said Burgess, and laughed, pleased with thenearest approach to an epigram he ever made in his life.

Here attention was called by the strange behaviour of Mr. North. He hadrisen, and, without apology, flung wide the window, as though he gasped forair. "Hullo, North! what's the matter?"

"Nothing," said North, recovering himself with an effort. "A spasm. I havethese attacks at times." "Have some brandy," said Burgess.

"No, no, it will pass. No, I say. Well, if you insist." And seizing thetumbler offered to him, he half-filled it with raw spirit, and swallowed thefiery draught at a gulp.

The Reverend Meekin eyed his clerical brother with horror. The ReverendMeekin was not accustomed to clergymen who wore black neckties, smoked claypipes, chewed tobacco, and drank neat brandy out of tumblers.

"Ha!" said North, looking wildly round upon them. "That's better."

"Let us go on to the verandah," said Burgess. "It's cooler than in thehouse."

So they went on to the verandah, and looked down upon the lights of theprison, and listened to the sea lapping the shore. The Reverend Mr. North, inthis cool atmosphere, seemed to recover himself, and conversation progressedwith some sprightliness.

By and by, a short figure, smoking a cheroot, came up out of the dark, andproved to be Dr. Macklewain, who had been prevented from attending the dinnerby reason of an accident to a constable at Norfolk Bay, which had claimed hisprofessional attention.

"Well, how's Forrest?" cried Burgess. "Mr. Meekin—Dr. Macklewain."

"Dead," said Dr. Macklewain. "Delighted to see you, Mr. Meekin."

"Confound it—another of my best men," grumbled Burgess. "Macklewain,have a glass of wine." But Macklewain was tired, and wanted to get home.

"I must also be thinking of repose," said Meekin; "the journey—thoughmost enjoyable—has fatigued me."

"Come on, then," said North. "Our roads lie together, doctor."

"You won't have a nip of brandy before you start?" asked Burgess.

"No? Then I shall send round for you in the morning, Mr. Meekin. Good night.Macklewain, I want to speak with you a moment."

Before the two clergymen had got half-way down the steep path that led fromthe Commandant's house to the flat on which the cottages of the doctor andchaplain were built, Macklewain rejoined them. "Another flogging to-morrow,"said he grumblingly. "Up at daylight, I suppose, again."

"Whom is he going to flog now?"

"That young butler-fellow of his." "What, Kirkland?" cried North. "You don'tmean to say he's going to flog Kirkland?"

"Insubordination," says Macklewain. "Fifty lashes."

"Oh, this must be stopped," cried North, in great alarm. "He can't stand it.I tell you, he'll die, Macklewain."

"Perhaps you'll have the goodness to allow me to be the best judge of that,"returned Macklewain, drawing up his little body to its least insignificantstature.

"My dear sir," replied North, alive to the importance of conciliating thesurgeon, "you haven't seen him lately. He tried to drown himself thismorning."

Mr. Meekin expressed some alarm; but Dr. Macklewain re-assured him. "Thatsort of nonsense must be stopped," said he. "A nice example to set. I wonderBurgess didn't give him a hundred."

"He was put into the long dormitory," said North; "you know what sort of aplace that is. I declare to Heaven his agony and shame terrified me."

"Well, he'll be put into the hospital for a week or so to-morrow," saidMacklewain, "and that'll give him a spell."

"If Burgess flogs him I'll report it to the Governor," cries North, in greatheat. "The condition of those dormitories is infamous."

"If the boy has anything to complain of, why don't he complain? We can't doanything without evidence."

"Complain! Would his life be safe if he did? Besides, he's not the sort ofcreature to complain. He'd rather kill himself."

"That's all nonsense," says Macklewain. "We can't flog a whole dormitory onsuspicion. I can't help it. The boy's made his bed, and he must lie on it."

"I'll go back and see Burgess," said North. "Mr. Meekin, here's the gate,and your room is on the right hand. I'll be back shortly."

"Pray, don't hurry," said Meekin politely. "You are on an errand of mercy,you know. Everything must give way to that. I shall find my portmanteau in myroom, you said."

"Yes, yes. Call the servant if you want anything. He sleeps at the back,"and North hurried off.

"An impulsive gentleman," said Meekin to Macklewain, as the sound of Mr.North's footsteps died away in the distance. Macklewain shook his headseriously.

"There is something wrong about him, but I can't make out what it is. He hasthe strangest fits at times. Unless it's a cancer in the stomach, I don't knowwhat it can be."

"Cancer in the stomach! dear me, how dreadful!" says Meekin. "Ah! Doctor, weall have our crosses, have we not? How delightful the grass smells! This seemsa very pleasant place, and I think I shall enjoy myself very much.Good-night."

"Good-night, sir. I hope you will be comfortable."

"And let us hope poor Mr. North will succeed in his labour of love," saidMeekin, shutting the little gate, "and save the unfortunate Kirkland.Good-night, once more."

Captain Burgess was shutting his verandah-window when North hurried up.

"Captain Burgess, Macklewain tells me you are going to flog Kirkland."

"Well, sir, what of that?" said Burgess.

"I have come to beg you not to do so, sir. The lad has been cruelly punishedalready. He attempted suicide to-day—unhappy creature."

"Well, that's just what I'm flogging him for. I'll teach my prisoners toattempt suicide!"

"But he can't stand it, sir. He's too weak."

"That's Macklewain's business."

"Captain Burgess," protested North, "I assure you that he does not deservepunishment. I have seen him, and his condition of mind is pitiable."

"Look here, Mr. North, I don't interfere with what you do to the prisoner'ssouls; don't you interfere with what I do to their bodies."

"Captain Burgess, you have no right to mock at my office."

"Then don't you interfere with me, sir."

"Do you persist in having this boy flogged?"

"I've given my orders, sir."

"Then, Captain Burgess," cried North, his pale face flushing, "I tell youthe boy's blood will be on your head. I am a minister of God, sir, and I forbidyou to commit this crime."

"Damn your impertinence, sir!" burst out Burgess. "You're a dismissedofficer of the Government, sir. You've no authority here in any way; and, byGod, sir, if you interfere with my discipline, sir, I'll have you put in ironsuntil you're shipped out of the island."

This, of course, was mere bravado on the part of the Commandant. North knewwell that he would never dare to attempt any such act of violence, but theinsult stung him like the cut of a whip. He made a stride towards theCommandant, as though to seize him by the throat, but, checking himself intime, stood still, with clenched hands, flashing eyes, and beard thatbristled.

The two men looked at each other, and presently Burgess's eyes fell beforethose of the chaplain.

"Miserable blasphemer," says North, "I tell you that you shall not flog theboy."

Burgess, white with rage, rang the bell that summoned his convictservant.

"Show Mr. North out," he said, "and go down to the Barracks, and tell Trokethat Kirkland is to have a hundred lashes to-morrow. I'll show you who's masterhere, my good sir."

"I'll report this to the Government," said North, aghast. "This ismurderous."

"The Government may go to——, and you, too!" roared Burgess. "Getout!" And God's viceregent at Port Arthur slammed the door.

North returned home in great agitation. "They shall not flog that boy," hesaid. "I'll shield him with my own body if necessary. I'll report this to theGovernment. I'll see Sir John Franklin myself. I'll have the light of day letinto this den of horrors." He reached his cottage, and lighted the lamp in thelittle sitting-room. All was silent, save that from the adjoining chamber camethe sound of Meekin's gentlemanly snore. North took down a book from the shelfand tried to read, but the letters ran together. "I wish I hadn't taken thatbrandy," he said. "Fool that I am."

Then he began to walk up and down, to fling himself on the sofa, to read, topray. "Oh, God, give me strength! Aid me! Help me! I struggle, but I am weak.O, Lord, look down upon me!"

To see him rolling on the sofa in agony, to see his white face, his parchedlips, and his contracted brow, to hear his moans and muttered prayers, onewould have thought him suffering from the pangs of some terrible disease. Heopened the book again, and forced himself to read, but his eyes wandered to thecupboard. There lurked something that fascinated him. He got up at length, wentinto the kitchen, and found a packet of red pepper. He mixed a teaspoonful ofthis in a pannikin of water and drank it. It relieved him for a while.

"I must keep my wits for to-morrow. The life of that lad depends upon it.Meekin, too, will suspect. I will lie down."

He went into his bedroom and flung himself on the bed, but only to toss fromside to side. In vain he repeated texts of Scripture and scraps of verse; invain counted imaginary sheep, or listened to imaginary clock-tickings. Sleepwould not come to him. It was as though he had reached the crisis of a diseasewhich had been for days gathering force. "I must have a teaspoonful," he said,"to allay the craving."

Twice he paused on the way to the sitting-room, and twice was he driven onby a power stronger than his will. He reached it at length, and opening thecupboard, pulled out what he sought. A bottle of brandy. With this in his hand,all moderation vanished. He raised it to his lips and eagerly drank. Then,ashamed of what he had done, he thrust the bottle back, and made for his room.Still he could not sleep. The taste of the liquor maddened him for more. He sawin the darkness the brandy bottle—vulgar and terrible apparition! He sawits amber fluid sparkle. He heard it gurgle as he poured it out. He smelt thenutty aroma of the spirit. He pictured it standing in the corner of thecupboard, and imagined himself seizing it and quenching the fire that burnedwithin him. He wept, he prayed, he fought with his desire as with a madness. Hetold himself that another's life depended on his exertions, that to give way tohis fatal passion was unworthy of an educated man and a reasoning being, thatit was degrading, disgusting, and bestial. That, at all times debasing, at thisparticular time it was infamous; that a vice, unworthy of any man, was doublysinful in a man of education and a minister of God. In vain. In the midst ofhis arguments he found himself at the cupboard, with the bottle at his lips, inan attitude that was at once ludicrous and horrible.

He had no cancer. His disease was a more terrible one. The Reverend JamesNorth—gentleman, scholar, and Christian priest—was what the worldcalls "a confirmed drunkard".

CHAPTER XV. ONE HUNDRED LASHES.

The morning sun, bright and fierce, looked down upon a curious sight. In astone-yard was a little group of persons—Troke, Burgess, Macklewain,Kirkland, and Rufus Dawes.

Three wooden staves, seven feet high, were fastened together in the form ofa triangle. The structure looked not unlike that made by gypsies to boil theirkettles. To this structure Kirkland was bound. His feet were fastened withthongs to the base of the triangle; his wrists, bound above his head, at theapex. His body was then extended to its fullest length, and his white backshone in the sunlight. During his tying up he had said nothing—only whenTroke pulled off his shirt he shivered.

"Now, prisoner," said Troke to Dawes, "do your duty."

Rufus Dawes looked from the three stern faces to Kirkland's white back, andhis face grew purple. In all his experience he had never been asked to flogbefore. He had been flogged often enough.

"You don't want me to flog him, sir?" he said to the Commandant.

"Pick up the cat, sir!" said Burgess, astonished; "what is the meaning ofthis?" Rufus Dawes picked up the heavy cat, and drew its knotted lashes betweenhis fingers.

"Go on, Dawes," whispered Kirkland, without turning his head. "You are nomore than another man."

"What does he say?" asked Burgess.

"Telling him to cut light, sir," said Troke, eagerly lying; "they all doit." "Cut light, eh! We'll see about that. Get on, my man, and look sharp, orI'll tie you up and give you fifty for yourself, as sure as God made littleapples."

"Go on, Dawes," whispered Kirkland again. "I don't mind."

Rufus Dawes lifted the cat, swung it round his head, and brought its knottedcords down upon the white back.

"Wonn!" cried Troke.

The white back was instantly striped with six crimson bars. Kirkland stifleda cry. It seemed to him that he had been cut in half.

"Now then, you scoundrel!" roared Burgess; "separate your cats! What do youmean by flogging a man that fashion?"

Rufus Dawes drew his crooked fingers through the entangled cords, and struckagain. This time the blow was more effective, and the blood beaded on theskin.

The boy did not cry; but Macklewain saw his hands clutch the staves tightly,and the muscles of his naked arms quiver.

"Tew!"

"That's better," said Burgess.

The third blow sounded as though it had been struck upon a piece of rawbeef, and the crimson turned purple.

"My God!" said Kirkland, faintly, and bit his lips.

The flogging proceeded in silence for ten strikes, and then Kirkland gave ascreech like a wounded horse.

"Oh!...Captain Burgess!...Dawes!...Mr. Troke!...Oh, my God!...Oh!oh!...Mercy!...Oh, Doctor!...Mr. North!...Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"Ten!" cried Troke, impassively counting to the end of the first twenty.

The lad's back, swollen into a lump, now presented the appearance of a ripepeach which a wilful child had scored with a pin. Dawes, turning away from hisbloody handiwork, drew the cats through his fingers twice. They were beginningto get clogged a little.

"Go on," said Burgess, with a nod; and Troke cried "Wonn!" again.

Roused by the morning sun streaming in upon him, Mr. North opened hisbloodshot eyes, rubbed his forehead with hands that trembled, and suddenlyawakening to a consciousness of his promised errand, rolled off the bed androse to his feet. He saw the empty brandy bottle on his wooden dressing-table,and remembered what had passed. With shaking hands he dashed water over hisaching head, and smoothed his garments. The debauch of the previous night hadleft the usual effects behind it. His brain seemed on fire, his hands were hotand dry, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He shuddered as he viewedhis pale face and red eyes in the little looking-glass, and hastily tried thedoor. He had retained sufficient sense in his madness to lock it, and hiscondition had been unobserved. Stealing into the sitting-room, he saw that theclock pointed to half-past six. The flogging was to have taken place athalf-past five. Unless accident had favoured him he was already too late.Fevered with remorse and anxiety, he hurried past the room where Meekin yetslumbered, and made his way to the prison. As he entered the yard, Troke called"Ten!" Kirkland had just got his fiftieth lash.

"Stop!" cried North. "Captain Burgess, I call upon you to stop."

"You're rather late, Mr. North," retorted Burgess. "The punishment is nearlyover." "Wonn!" cried Troke again; and North stood by, biting his nails andgrinding his teeth, during six more lashes.

Kirkland ceased to yell now, and merely moaned. His back was like a bloodysponge, while in the interval between lashes the swollen flesh twitched likethat of a new-killed bullock. Suddenly, Macklewain saw his head droop on hisshoulder. "Throw him off! Throw him off!" he cried, and Troke hurried to loosenthe thongs.

"Fling some water over him!" said Burgess; "he's shamming."

A bucket of water made Kirkland open his eyes. "I thought so," said Burgess."Tie him up again."

"No. Not if you are Christians!" cried North.

He met with an ally where he least expected one. Rufus Dawes flung down thedripping cat. "I'll flog no more," said he.

"What?" roared Burgess, furious at this gross insolence.

"I'll flog no more. Get someone else to do your blood work for you. Iwon't."

"Tie him up!" cried Burgess, foaming. "Tie him up. Here, constable, fetch aman here with a fresh cat. I'll give you that beggar's fifty, and fifty more onthe top of 'em; and he shall look on while his back cools."

Rufus Dawes, with a glance at North, pulled off his shirt without a word,and stretched himself at the triangles. His back was not white and smooth, likeKirkland's had been, but hard and seamed. He had been flogged before. Trokeappeared with Gabbett—grinning. Gabbett liked flogging. It was his boastthat he could flog a man to death on a place no bigger than the palm of hishand. He could use his left hand equally with his right, and if he got hold ofa "favourite", would "cross the cuts".

Rufus Dawes planted his feet firmly on the ground, took fierce grasp on thestaves, and drew in his breath. Macklewain spread the garments of the two menupon the ground, and, placing Kirkland upon them, turned to watch this newphase in the morning's amusem*nt. He grumbled a little below his breath, for hewanted his breakfast, and when the Commandant once began to flog there was notelling where he would stop. Rufus Dawes took five-and-twenty lashes without amurmur, and then Gabbett "crossed the cuts". This went on up to fifty lashes,and North felt himself stricken with admiration at the courage of the man. "Ifit had not been for that cursed brandy," thought he, with bitterness ofself-reproach, "I might have saved all this." At the hundredth lash, the giantpaused, expecting the order to throw off, but Burgess was determined to "breakthe man's spirit".

"I'll make you speak, you dog, if I cut your heart out!" he cried. "Go on,prisoner."

For twenty lashes more Dawes was mute, and then the agony forced from hislabouring breast a hideous cry. But it was not a cry for mercy, as that ofKirkland's had been. Having found his tongue, the wretched man gave vent to hisboiling passion in a torrent of curses. He shrieked imprecation upon Burgess,Troke, and North. He cursed all soldiers for tyrants, all parsons forhypocrites. He blasphemed his God and his Saviour. With a frightful outpouringof obscenity and blasphemy, he called on the earth to gape and swallow hispersecutors, for Heaven to open and rain fire upon them, for hell to yawn andengulf them quick. It was as though each blow of the cat forced out of him afresh burst of beast-like rage. He seemed to have abandoned his humanity. Hefoamed, he raved, he tugged at his bonds until the strong staves shook again;he writhed himself round upon the triangles and spat impotently at Burgess, whojeered at his torments. North, with his hands to his ears, crouched against thecorner of the wall, palsied with horror. It seemed to him that the passions ofhell raged around him. He would fain have fled, but a horrible fascination heldhim back.

In the midst of this—when the cat was hissing itsloudest—Burgess laughing his hardest, and the wretch on the trianglesfilling the air with his cries, North saw Kirkland look at him with what hethought a smile. Was it a smile? He leapt forward, and uttered a cry of dismayso loud that all turned.

"Hullo!" says Troke, running to the heap of clothes, "the young 'un'sslipped his wind!"

Kirkland was dead.

"Throw him off!" says Burgess, aghast at the unfortunate accident; andGabbett reluctantly untied the thongs that bound Rufus Dawes. Two constableswere alongside him in an instant, for sometimes newly tortured men grewdesperate. This one, however, was silent with the last lash; only in taking hisshirt from under the body of the boy, he muttered, "Dead!" and in his tonethere seemed to be a touch of envy. Then, flinging his shirt over his bleedingshoulders, he walked out—defiant to the last.

"Game, ain't he?" said one constable to the other, as they pushed him, notungently, into an empty cell, there to wait for the hospital guard. The body ofKirkland was taken away in silence, and Burgess turned rather pale when he sawNorth's threatening face.

"It isn't my fault, Mr. North," he said. "I didn't know that the lad waschicken-hearted." But North turned away in disgust, and Macklewain and Burgesspursued their homeward route together.

"Strange that he should drop like that," said the Commandant.

"Yes, unless he had any internal disease," said the surgeon.

"Disease of the heart, for instance," said Burgess.

"I'll post-mortem him and see."

"Come in and have a nip, Macklewain. I feel quite qualmish," said Burgess.And the two went into the house amid respectful salutes from either side. Mr.North, in agony of mind at what he considered the consequence of his neglect,slowly, and with head bowed down, as one bent on a painful errand, went to seethe prisoner who had survived. He found him kneeling on the ground, prostrated."Rufus Dawes."

At the low tone Rufus Dawes looked up, and, seeing who it was, waved himoff.

"Don't speak to me," he said, with an imprecation that made North's fleshcreep. "I've told you what I think of you—a hypocrite, who stands bywhile a man is cut to pieces, and then comes and whines religion to him."

North stood in the centre of the cell, with his arms hanging down, and hishead bent.

"You are right," he said, in a low tone. "I must seem to you a hypocrite. Ia servant of Christ? A besotted beast rather! I am not come to whine religionto you. I am come to—to ask your pardon. I might have saved you frompunishment—saved that poor boy from death. I wanted to save him, Godknows! But I have a vice; I am a drunkard. I yielded to my temptation,and—I was too late. I come to you as one sinful man to another, to askyou to forgive me." And North suddenly flung himself down beside the convict,and, catching his blood-bespotted hands in his own, cried, "Forgive me,brother!"

Rufus Dawes, too much astonished to speak, bent his black eyes upon the manwho crouched at his feet, and a ray of divine pity penetrated his gloomy soul.He seemed to catch a glimpse of misery more profound than his own, and hisstubborn heart felt human sympathy with this erring brother. "Then in this hellthere is yet a man," said he; and a hand-grasp passed between these two unhappybeings. North arose, and, with averted face, passed quickly from the cell.Rufus Dawes looked at his hand which his strange visitor had taken, andsomething glittered there. It was a tear. He broke down at the sight of it, andwhen the guard came to fetch the tameless convict, they found him on his kneesin a corner, sobbing like a child.

CHAPTER XVI. KICKING AGAINST THE PRICKS.

The morning after this, the Rev. Mr. North departed in the schooner forHobart Town. Between the officious chaplain and the Commandant the events ofthe previous day had fixed a great gulf. Burgess knew that North meant toreport the death of Kirkland, and guessed that he would not be backward inrelating the story to such persons in Hobart Town as would most readily repeatit. "Blank awkward the fellow's dying," he confessed to himself. "If he hadn'tdied, nobody would have bothered about him." A sinister truth. North, on theother hand, comforted himself with the belief that the fact of the convict'sdeath under the lash would cause indignation and subsequent inquiry. "The truthmust come out if they only ask," thought he. Self-deceiving North! Four years aGovernment chaplain, and not yet attained to a knowledge of a Government'smethod of "asking" about such matters! Kirkland's mangled flesh would have fedthe worms before the ink on the last "minute" from deliberating Authority wasdry.

Burgess, however, touched with selfish regrets, determined to baulk theparson at the outset. He would send down an official "return" of theunfortunate occurrence by the same vessel that carried his enemy, and thus getthe ear of the Office. Meekin, walking on the evening of the flogging past thewooden shed where the body lay, saw Troke bearing buckets filled withdark-coloured water, and heard a great splashing and sluicing going on insidethe hut. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Doctor's bin post-morticing the prisoner what was flogged this morning,sir," said Troke, "and we're cleanin' up."

Meekin sickened, and walked on. He had heard that unhappy Kirkland possessedunknown disease of the heart, and had unhappily died before receiving hisallotted punishment. His duty was to comfort Kirkland's soul; he had nothing todo with Kirkland's slovenly unhandsome body, and so he went for a walk on thepier, that the breeze might blow his momentary sickness away from him. On thepier he saw North talking to Father Flaherty, the Roman Catholic chaplain.Meekin had been taught to look upon a priest as a shepherd might look upon awolf, and passed with a distant bow. The pair were apparently talking on theoccurrence of the morning, for he heard Father Flaherty say, with a shrug ofhis round shoulders, "He woas not one of moi people, Mr. North, and theGovermint would not suffer me to interfere with matters relating to Prhotestintprisoners." "The wretched creature was a Protestant," thought Meekin. "At leastthen his immortal soul was not endangered by belief in the damnable heresies ofthe Church of Rome." So he passed on, giving good-humoured Denis Flaherty, theson of the butter-merchant of Kildrum, a wide berth and sea-room, lest heshould pounce down upon him unawares, and with Jesuitical argument and silkensoftness of speech, convert him by force to his own state of error—as wasthe well-known custom of those intellectual gladiators, the Priests of theCatholic Faith. North, on his side, left Flaherty with regret. He had spentmany a pleasant hour with him, and knew him for a narrow-minded, conscientious,yet laughter-loving creature, whose God was neither his belly nor his breviary,but sometimes in one place and sometimes in the other, according to the hour ofthe day, and the fasts appointed for due mortification of the flesh. "A man whowould do Christian work in a jog-trot parish, or where men lived too easily tosin harshly, but utterly unfit to cope with Satan, as the British Governmenthad transported him," was North's sadly satirical reflection upon FatherFlaherty, as Port Arthur faded into indistinct beauty behind the swift-sailingschooner. "God help those poor villains, for neither parson nor priestcan."

He was right. North, the drunkard and self-tormented, had a power for good,of which Meekin and the other knew nothing. Not merely were the men incompetentand self-indulgent, but they understood nothing of that frightful capacity foragony which is deep in the soul of every evil-doer. They might strike the rockas they chose with sharpest-pointed machine-made pick of warranted Gospelmanufacture, stamped with the approval of eminent divines of all ages, but thewater of repentance and remorse would not gush for them. They possessed not thefrail rod which alone was powerful to charm. They had no sympathy, noknowledge, no experience. He who would touch the hearts of men must have hadhis own heart seared. The missionaries of mankind have ever been great sinnersbefore they earned the divine right to heal and bless. Their weakness was madetheir strength, and out of their own agony of repentance came the knowledgewhich made them masters and saviours of their kind. It was the agony of theGarden and the Cross that gave to the world's Preacher His kingdom in thehearts of men. The crown of divinity is a crown of thorns.

North, on his arrival, went straight to the house of Major Vickers. "I havea complaint to make, sir," he said. "I wish to lodge it formally with you. Aprisoner has been flogged to death at Port Arthur. I saw it done."

Vickers bent his brow. "A serious accusation, Mr. North. I must, of course,receive it with respect, coming from you, but I trust that you have fullyconsidered the circ*mstances of the case. I always understood Captain Burgesswas a most humane man."

North shook his head. He would not accuse Burgess. He would let the eventsspeak for themselves. "I only ask for an inquiry," said he.

"Yes, my dear sir, I know. Very proper indeed on your part, if you think anyinjustice has been done; but have you considered the expense, the delay, theimmense trouble and dissatisfaction all this will give?"

"No trouble, no expense, no dissatisfaction, should stand in the way ofhumanity and justice," cried North.

"Of course not. But will justice be done? Are you sure you can prove yourcase? Mind, I admit nothing against Captain Burgess, whom I have alwaysconsidered a most worthy and zealous officer; but, supposing your charge to betrue, can you prove it?"

"Yes. If the witnesses speak the truth."

"Who are they?" "Myself, Dr. Macklewain, the constable, and two prisoners,one of whom was flogged himself. He will speak the truth, I believe. The otherman I have not much faith in."

"Very well; then there is only a prisoner and Dr. Macklewain; for if therehas been foul play the convict-constable will not accuse the authorities.Moreover, the doctor does not agree with you."

"No?" cried North, amazed.

"No. You see, then, my dear sir, how necessary it is not to be hasty inmatters of this kind. I really think—pardon me for myplainness—that your goodness of heart has misled you. Captain Burgesssends a report of the case. He says the man was sentenced to a hundred lashesfor gross insolence and disobedience of orders, that the doctor was presentduring the punishment, and that the man was thrown off by his directions afterhe had received fifty-six lashes. That, after a short interval, he was found tobe dead, and that the doctor made a post-mortem examination and found diseaseof the heart."

North started. "A post-mortem? I never knew there had been one held."

"Here is the medical certificate," said Vickers, holding it out,"accompanied by the copies of the evidence of the constable and a letter fromthe Commandant."

Poor North took the papers and read them slowly. They were apparentlystraightforward enough. Aneurism of the ascending aorta was given as the causeof death; and the doctor frankly admitted that had he known the deceased to besuffering from that complaint he would not have permitted him to receive morethan twenty-five lashes. "I think Macklewain is an honest man," said North,doubtfully. "He would not dare to return a false certificate. Yet thecirc*mstances of the case—the horrible condition of theprisoners—the frightful story of that boy—"

"I cannot enter into these questions, Mr. North. My position here is toadminister the law to the best of my ability, not to question it."

North bowed his head to the reproof. In some sort of justly unjust way, hefelt that he deserved it. "I can say no more, sir. I am afraid I am helpless inthis matter—as I have been in others. I see that the evidence is againstme; but it is my duty to carry my efforts as far as I can, and I will do so."Vickers bowed stiffly and wished him good morning. Authority, howeverwell-meaning in private life, has in its official capacity a natural dislike tothose dissatisfied persons who persist in pushing inquiries to extremities.

North, going out with saddened spirits, met in the passage a beautiful younggirl. It was Sylvia, coming to visit her father. He lifted his hat and lookedafter her. He guessed that she was the daughter of the man he hadleft—the wife of the Captain Frere concerning whom he had heard so much.North was a man whose morbidly excited brain was prone to strange fancies; andit seemed to him that beneath the clear blue eyes that flashed upon him for amoment, lay a hint of future sadness, in which, in some strange way, he himselfwas to bear part. He stared after her figure until it disappeared; and longafter the dainty presence of the young bride—trimly booted,tight-waisted, and neatly-gloved—had faded, with all its sunshine ofgaiety and health, from out of his mental vision, he still saw those blue eyesand that cloud of golden hair.

CHAPTER XVII. CAPTAIN AND MRS. FRERE.

Sylvia had become the wife of Maurice Frere. The wedding created excitementin the convict settlement, for Maurice Frere, though oppressed by the secretshame at open matrimony which affects men of his character, could not indecency—seeing how "good a thing for him" was this wealthyalliance—demand unceremonious nuptials. So, after the fashion of thetown—there being no "continent" or "Scotland" adjacent as a hiding placefor bridal blushes—the alliance was entered into with due pomp of balland supper; bride and bridegroom departing through the golden afternoon to thenearest of Major Vickers's stations. Thence it had been arranged they shouldreturn after a fortnight, and take ship for Sydney.

Major Vickers, affectionate though he was to the man whom he believed to bethe saviour of his child, had no notion of allowing him to live on Sylvia'sfortune. He had settled his daughter's portion—ten thousandpounds—upon herself and children, and had informed Frere that he expectedhim to live upon an income of his own earning. After many consultations betweenthe pair, it had been arranged that a civil appointment in Sydney would bestsuit the bridegroom, who was to sell out of the service. This notion wasFrere's own. He never cared for military duty, and had, moreover, private debtsto no inconsiderable amount. By selling his commission he would be enabled atonce to pay these debts, and render himself eligible for any well-paid postunder the Colonial Government that the interest of his father-in-law, and hisown reputation as a convict disciplinarian, might procure. Vickers would fainhave kept his daughter with him, but he unselfishly acquiesced in the scheme,admitting that Frere's plea as to the comforts she would derive from thesociety to be found in Sydney was a valid one.

"You can come over and see us when we get settled, papa," said Sylvia, witha young matron's pride of place, "and we can come and see you. Hobart Town isvery pretty, but I want to see the world."

"You should go to London, Poppet," said Maurice, "that's the place. Isn'tit, sir?"

"Oh, London!" cries Sylvia, clapping her hands. "And Westminster Abbey, andthe Tower, and St. James's Palace, and Hyde Park, and Fleet-street! 'Sir,' saidDr. Johnson, 'let us take a walk down Fleet-street.' Do you remember, in Mr.Croker's book, Maurice? No, you don't I know, because you only looked at thepictures, and then read Pierce Egan's account of the Topping Fight between BobGaynor and Ned Neal, or some such person."

"Little girls should be seen and not heard," said Maurice, between a laughand a blush. "You have no business to read my books."

"Why not?" she asked, with a gaiety which already seemed a little strained;"husband and wife should have no secrets from each other, sir. Besides, I wantyou to read my books. I am going to read Shelley to you."

"Don't, my dear," said Maurice simply. "I can't understand him."

This little scene took place at the dinner-table of Frere's cottage, in NewTown, to which Major Vickers had been invited, in order that future plans mightbe discussed.

"I don't want to go to Port Arthur," said the bride, later in the evening."Maurice, there can be no necessity to go there."

"Well," said Maurice. "I want to have a look at the place. I ought to befamiliar with all phases of convict discipline, you know."

"There is likely to be a report ordered upon the death of a prisoner," saidVickers. "The chaplain, a fussy but well-meaning person, has been memorializingabout it. You may as well do it as anybody else, Maurice."

"Ay. And save the expenses of the trip," said Maurice.

"But it is so melancholy," cried Sylvia.

"The most delightful place in the island, my dear. I was there for a fewdays once, and I really was charmed."

It was remarkable—so Vickers thought—how each of thesenewly-mated ones had caught something of the other's manner of speech. Sylviawas less choice in her mode of utterance; Frere more so. He caught himselfwondering which of the two methods both would finally adopt.

"But those dogs, and sharks, and things. Oh, Maurice, haven't we had enoughof convicts?"

"Enough! Why, I'm going to make my living out of 'em," said Maurice, withhis most natural manner.

Sylvia sighed.

"Play something, darling," said her father; and so the girl, sitting down tothe piano, trilled and warbled in her pure young voice, until the Port Arthurquestion floated itself away upon waves of melody, and was heard of no more forthat time. But upon pursuing the subject, Sylvia found her husband firm. Hewanted to go, and he would go. Having once assured himself that it wasadvantageous to him to do a certain thing, the native obstinacy of the animalurged him to do it despite all opposition from others, and Sylvia, having hadher first "cry" over the question of the visit, gave up the point. This was thefirst difference of their short married life, and she hastened to condone it.In the sunshine of Love and Marriage—for Maurice at first really lovedher; and love, curbing the worst part of him, brought to him, as it brings toall of us, that gentleness and abnegation of self which is the only token andassurance of a love aught but animal—Sylvia's fears and doubts meltedaway, as the mists melt in the beams of morning. A young girl, with passionatefancy, with honest and noble aspiration, but with the dark shadow of her earlymental sickness brooding upon her childlike nature, Marriage made her a woman,by developing in her a woman's trust and pride in the man to whom she hadvoluntarily given herself. Yet by-and-by out of this sentiment arose a new andstrange source of anxiety. Having accepted her position as a wife, and put awayfrom her all doubts as to her own capacity for loving the man to whom she hadallied herself, she began to be haunted by a dread lest he might do somethingwhich would lessen the affection she bore him. On one or two occasions she hadbeen forced to confess that her husband was more of an egotist than she caredto think. He demanded of her no great sacrifices—had he done so she wouldhave found, in making them, the pleasure that women of her nature always findin such self-mortification—but he now and then intruded on her thatdisregard for the feeling of others which was part of his character. He wasfond of her—almost too passionately fond, for her staiderliking—but he was unused to thwart his own will in anything, least of allin those seeming trifles, for the consideration of which true selfishnessbethinks itself. Did she want to read when he wanted to walk, hegood-humouredly put aside her book, with an assumption that a walk with himmust, of necessity, be the most pleasing thing in the world. Did she want towalk when he wanted to rest, he laughingly set up his laziness as anall-sufficient plea for her remaining within doors. He was at no pains toconceal his weariness when she read her favourite books to him. If he feltsleepy when she sang or played, he slept without apology. If she talked about asubject in which he took no interest, he turned the conversation remorselessly.He would not have wittingly offended her, but it seemed to him natural to yawnwhen he was weary, to sleep when he was fatigued, and to talk only about thosesubjects which interested him. Had anybody told him that he was selfish, hewould have been astonished. Thus it came about that Sylvia one day discoveredthat she led two lives—one in the body, and one in the spirit—andthat with her spiritual existence her husband had no share. This discoveryalarmed her, but then she smiled at it. "As if Maurice could be expected totake interest in all my silly fancies," said she; and, despite a harassingthought that these same fancies were not foolish, but were the best andbrightest portion of her, she succeeded in overcoming her uneasiness. "A man'sthoughts are different from a woman's," she said; "he has his business and hisworldly cares, of which a woman knows nothing. I must comfort him, and notworry him with my follies."

As for Maurice, he grew sometimes rather troubled in his mind. He could notunderstand his wife. Her nature was an enigma to him; her mind was a puzzlewhich would not be pieced together with the rectangular correctness of ordinarylife. He had known her from a child, had loved her from a child, and hadcommitted a mean and cruel crime to obtain her; but having got her, he was nonearer to the mystery of her than before. She was all his own, he thought. Hergolden hair was for his fingers, her lips were for his caress, her eyes lookedlove upon him alone. Yet there were times when her lips were cold to hiskisses, and her eyes looked disdainfully upon his coarser passion. He wouldcatch her musing when he spoke to her, much as she would catch him sleepingwhen she read to him—but she awoke with a start and a blush at herforgetfulness, which he never did. He was not a man to brood over these things;and, after some reflective pipes and ineffectual rubbings of his head, he "gaveit up". How was it possible, indeed, for him to solve the mental enigma whenthe woman herself was to him a physical riddle? It was extraordinary that thechild he had seen growing up by his side day by day should be a young womanwith little secrets, now to be revealed to him for the first time. He foundthat she had a mole on her neck, and remembered that he had noticed it when shewas a child. Then it was a thing of no moment, now it was a marvellousdiscovery. He was in daily wonderment at the treasure he had obtained. Hemarvelled at her feminine devices of dress and adornment. Her dainty garmentsseemed to him perfumed with the odour of sanctity.

The fact was that the patron of Sarah Purfoy had not met with many virtuouswomen, and had but just discovered what a dainty morsel Modesty was.

CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE HOSPITAL.

The hospital of Port Arthur was not a cheerful place, but to the torturedand unnerved Rufus Dawes it seemed a paradise. There at least—despite theroughness and contempt with which his gaolers ministered to him—he feltthat he was considered. There at least he was free from the enforcedcompanionship of the men whom he loathed, and to whose level he felt, withmental agony unspeakable, that he was daily sinking. Throughout his long termof degradation he had, as yet, aided by the memory of his sacrifice and hislove, preserved something of his self-respect, but he felt that he could notpreserve it long. Little by little he had come to regard himself as one out ofthe pale of love and mercy, as one tormented of fortune, plunged into a deepinto which the eye of Heaven did not penetrate. Since his capture in the gardenof Hobart Town, he had given loose rein to his rage and his despair. "I amforgotten or despised; I have no name in the world; what matter if I becomelike one of these?" It was under the influence of this feeling that he hadpicked up the cat at the command of Captain Burgess. As the unhappy Kirklandhad said, "As well you as another"; and truly, what was he that he shouldcherish sentiments of honour or humanity? But he had miscalculated his owncapacity for evil. As he flogged, he blushed; and when he flung down the catand stripped his own back for punishment, he felt a fierce joy in the thoughtthat his baseness would be atoned for in his own blood. Even when, unnerved andfaint from the hideous ordeal, he flung himself upon his knees in the cell, heregretted only the impotent ravings that the torture had forced from him. Hecould have bitten out his tongue for his blasphemous utterings—notbecause they were blasphemous, but because their utterance, by revealing hisagony, gave their triumph to his tormentors. When North found him, he was inthe very depth of this abasem*nt, and he repulsed his comforter—not somuch because he had seen him flogged, as because he had heard him cry. Theself-reliance and force of will which had hitherto sustained him through hisself-imposed trial had failed him—he felt—at the moment when heneeded it most; and the man who had with unflinched front faced the gallows,the desert, and the sea, confessed his debased humanity beneath the physicaltorture of the lash. He had been flogged before, and had wept in secret at hisdegradation, but he now for the first time comprehended how terrible thatdegradation might be made, for he realized how the agony of the wretched bodycan force the soul to quit its last poor refuge of assumed indifference, andconfess itself conquered.

Not many months before, one of the companions of the chain, suffering underBurgess's tender mercies, had killed his mate when at work with him, and,carrying the body on his back to the nearest gang, had surrenderedhimself—going to his death thanking God he had at last found a way ofescape from his miseries, which no one would envy him—save his comrades.The heart of Dawes had been filled with horror at a deed so bloody, and he had,with others, commented on the cowardice of the man that would thus shirk theresponsibility of that state of life in which it had pleased man and the devilto place him. Now he understood how and why the crime had been committed, andfelt only pity. Lying awake with back that burned beneath its lotioned rags,when lights were low, in the breathful silence of the hospital, he registeredin his heart a terrible oath that he would die ere he would again be made suchhideous sport for his enemies. In this frame of mind, with such shreds ofhonour and worth as had formerly clung to him blown away in the whirlwind ofhis passion, he bethought him of the strange man who had deigned to clasp hishand and call him "brother". He had wept no unmanly tears at this sudden flowof tenderness in one whom he had thought as callous as the rest. He had beentouched with wondrous sympathy at the confession of weakness made to him, in amoment when his own weakness had overcome him to his shame. Soothed by thebrief rest that his fortnight of hospital seclusion had afforded him, he hadbegun, in a languid and speculative way, to turn his thoughts to religion. Hehad read of martyrs who had borne agonies unspeakable, upheld by theirconfidence in Heaven and God. In his old wild youth he had scoffed at prayersand priests; in the hate to his kind that had grown upon him with his lateryears he had despised a creed that told men to love one another. "God is love,my brethren," said the chaplain on Sundays, and all the week the thongs of theoverseer cracked, and the cat hissed and swung. Of what practical value was apiety that preached but did not practise? It was admirable for the "religiousinstructor" to tell a prisoner that he must not give way to evil passions, butmust bear his punishment with meekness. It was only right that he should advisehim to "put his trust in God". But as a hardened prisoner, convicted of gettingdrunk in an unlicensed house of entertainment, had said, "God's terrible farfrom Port Arthur."

Rufus Dawes had smiled at the spectacle of priests admonishing men, who knewwhat he knew and had seen what he had seen, for the trivialities of lying andstealing. He had believed all priests impostors or fools, all religion amockery and a lie. But now, finding how utterly his own strength had failed himwhen tried by the rude test of physical pain, he began to think that thisReligion which was talked of so largely was not a mere bundle of legend andformulae, but must have in it something vital and sustaining. Broken in spiritand weakened in body, with faith in his own will shaken, he longed forsomething to lean upon, and turned—as all men turn when in suchcase—to the Unknown. Had now there been at hand some Christian priest,some Christian-spirited man even, no matter of what faith, to pour into theears of this poor wretch words of comfort and grace; to rend away from him thegarment of sullenness and despair in which he had wrapped himself; to drag fromhim a confession of his unworthiness, his obstinacy, and his hasty judgment,and to cheer his fainting soul with promise of immortality and justice, hemight have been saved from his after fate; but there was no such man. He askedfor the chaplain. North was fighting the Convict Department, seeking vengeancefor Kirkland, and (victim of "clerks with the cold spurt of the pen") waspushed hither and thither, referred here, snubbed there, bowed out in anotherplace. Rufus Dawes, half ashamed of himself for his request, waited a longmorning, and then saw, respectfully ushered into his cell as his soul'sphysician—Meekin.

CHAPTER XIX. THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

"Well, my good man," said Meekin, soothingly, "so you wanted to see me."

"I asked for the chaplain," said Rufus Dawes, his anger with himself growingapace. "I am the chaplain," returned Meekin, with dignity, as who shouldsay—"none of your brandy-drinking, pea-jacketed Norths, but a Respectablechaplain who is the friend of a Bishop!"

"I thought that Mr. North was—"

"Mr. North has left, sir," said Meekin, dryly, "but I will hear what youhave to say. There is no occasion to go, constable; wait outside the door."

Rufus Dawes shifted himself on the wooden bench, and resting hisscarcely-healed back against the wall, smiled bitterly. "Don't be afraid, sir;I am not going to harm you," he said. "I only wanted to talk a little."

"Do you read your Bible, Dawes?" asked Meekin, by way of reply. "It would bebetter to read your Bible than to talk, I think. You must humble yourself inprayer, Dawes."

"I have read it," said Dawes, still lying back and watching him.

"But is your mind softened by its teachings? Do you realize the InfiniteMercy of God, Who has compassion, Dawes, upon the greatest sinners?" Theconvict made a move of impatience. The old, sickening, barren cant of piety wasto be recommenced then. He came asking for bread, and they gave him the usualstone.

"Do you believe that there is a God, Mr. Meekin?"

"Abandoned sinner! Do you insult a clergyman by such a question?"

"Because I think sometimes that if there is, He must often be dissatisfiedat the way things are done here," said Dawes, half to himself.

"I can listen to no mutinous observations, prisoner," said Meekin. "Do notadd blasphemy to your other crimes. I fear that all conversation with you, inyour present frame of mind, would be worse than useless. I will mark a fewpassages in your Bible, that seem to me appropriate to your condition, and begyou to commit them to memory. Hailes, the door, if you please."

So, with a bow, the "consoler" departed.

Rufus Dawes felt his heart grow sick. North had gone, then. The only man whohad seemed to have a heart in his bosom had gone. The only man who had dared toclasp his horny and blood-stained hand, and call him "brother", had gone.Turning his head, he saw through the window—wide open and unbarred, forNature, at Port Arthur, had no need of bars—the lovely bay, smooth asglass, glittering in the afternoon sun, the long quay, spotted with groups ofparti-coloured chain-gangs, and heard, mingling with the soft murmur of thewaves, and the gentle rustling of the trees, the never-ceasing clashing ofirons, and the eternal click of hammer. Was he to be for ever buried in thiswhitened sepulchre, shut out from the face of Heaven and mankind!

The appearance of Hailes broke his reverie. "Here's a book for you," saidhe, with a grin. "Parson sent it."

Rufus Dawes took the Bible, and, placing it on his knees, turned to theplaces indicated by slips of paper, embracing some twenty marked texts.

"Parson says he'll come and hear you to-morrer, and you're to keep the bookclean."

"Keep the book clean!" and "hear him!" Did Meekin think that he was acharity school boy? The utter incapacity of the chaplain to understand hiswants was so sublime that it was nearly ridiculous enough to make him laugh. Heturned his eyes downwards to the texts. Good Meekin, in the fullness of hisstupidity, had selected the fiercest denunciations of bard and priest. The mostnotable of the Psalmist's curses upon his enemies, the most furious of Isaiah'sravings anent the forgetfulness of the national worship, the most terriblethunderings of apostle and evangelist against idolatry and unbelief, weregrouped together and presented to Dawes to soothe him. All the material horrorsof Meekin's faith—stripped, by force of dissociation from the context, ofall poetic feeling and local colouring—were launched at the sufferingsinner by Meekin's ignorant hand. The miserable man, seeking for consolationand peace, turned over the leaves of the Bible only to find himself threatenedwith "the pains of Hell", "the never-dying worm", "the unquenchable fire", "thebubbling brimstone", the "bottomless pit", from out of which the "smoke of historment" should ascend for ever and ever. Before his eyes was held no image ofa tender Saviour (with hands soft to soothe, and eyes brimming with ineffablepity) dying crucified that he and other malefactors might have hope, bythinking on such marvellous humanity. The worthy Pharisee who was sent to himto teach him how mankind is to be redeemed with Love, preached only that harshLaw whose barbarous power died with the gentle Nazarene on Calvary.

Repelled by this unlooked-for ending to his hopes, he let the book fall tothe ground. "Is there, then, nothing but torment for me in this world or thenext?" he groaned, shuddering. Presently his eyes sought his right hand,resting upon it as though it were not his own, or had some secret virtue whichmade it different from the other. "He would not have done this? He would nothave thrust upon me these savage judgments, these dreadful threats of Hell andDeath. He called me 'Brother'!" And filled with a strange wild pity forhimself, and yearning love towards the man who befriended him, he fell tonursing the hand on which North's tears had fallen, moaning and rocking himselfto and fro.

Meekin, in the morning, found his pupil more sullen than ever.

"Have you learned these texts, my man?" said he, cheerfully, willing not tobe angered with his uncouth and unpromising convert.

Rufus Dawes pointed with his foot to the Bible, which still lay on the flooras he had left it the night before. "No!"

"No! Why not?"

"I would learn no such words as those. I would rather forget them."

"Forget them! My good man, I—"

Rufus Dawes sprang up in sudden wrath, and pointing to his cell door with agesture that—chained and degraded as he was—had something ofdignity in it, cried, "What do you know about the feelings of such as I? Takeyour book and yourself away. When I asked for a priest, I had no thought ofyou. Begone!"

Meekin, despite the halo of sanctity which he felt should surround him,found his gentility melt all of a sudden. Adventitious distinctions haddisappeared for the instant. The pair had become simply man and man, and thesleek priest-master quailing before the outraged manhood of theconvict-penitent, picked up his Bible and backed out.

"That man Dawes is very insolent," said the insulted chaplain to Burgess."He was brutal to me to-day—quite brutal."

"Was he?" said Burgess. "Had too long a spell, I expect. I'll send him backto work to-morrow."

"It would be well," said Meekin, "if he had some employment."

CHAPTER XX. "A NATURAL PENITENTIARY."

"The "employment" at Port Arthur consisted chiefly of agriculture,ship-building, and tanning. Dawes, who was in the chain-gang, was put tochain-gang labour; that is to say, bringing down logs from the forest, or"lumbering" timber on the wharf. This work was not light. An ingeniouscalculator had discovered that the pressure of the log upon the shoulder waswont to average 125 lbs. Members of the chain-gang were dressed in yellow,and—by way of encouraging the others—had the word "Felon" stampedupon conspicuous parts of their raiment.

This was the sort of life Rufus Dawes led. In the summer-time he rose athalf-past five in the morning, and worked until six in the evening, gettingthree-quarters of an hour for breakfast, and one hour for dinner. Once a weekhe had a clean shirt, and once a fortnight clean socks. If he felt sick, he waspermitted to "report his case to the medical officer". If he wanted to write aletter he could ask permission of the Commandant, and send the letter, open,through that Almighty Officer, who could stop it if he thought necessary. If hefelt himself aggrieved by any order, he was "to obey it instantly, but mightcomplain afterwards, if he thought fit, to the Commandant. In making anycomplaint against an officer or constable it was strictly ordered that aprisoner "must be most respectful in his manner and language, when speaking ofor to such officer or constable". He was held responsible only for the safetyof his chains, and for the rest was at the mercy of his gaoler. Thesegaolers—owning right of search, entry into cells at all hours, and otherdroits of seigneury—were responsible only to the Commandant, who wasresponsible only to the Governor, that is to say, to nobody but God and his ownconscience. The jurisdiction of the Commandant included the whole of Tasman'sPeninsula, with the islands and waters within three miles thereof; and save themaking of certain returns to head-quarters, his power was unlimited.

A word as to the position and appearance of this place of punishment.Tasman's Peninsula is, as we have said before, in the form of an earring with adouble drop. The lower drop is the larger, and is ornamented, so to speak, withbays. At its southern extremity is a deep indentation called Maingon Bay,bounded east and west by the organ-pipe rocks of Cape Raoul, and the giant formof Cape Pillar. From Maingon Bay an arm of the ocean cleaves the rocky walls ina northerly direction. On the western coast of this sea-arm was the settlement;in front of it was a little island where the dead were buried, called TheIsland of the Dead. Ere the in-coming convict passed the purple beauty of thisconvict Golgotha, his eyes were attracted by a point of grey rock covered withwhite buildings, and swarming with life. This was Point Puer, the place ofconfinement for boys from eight to twenty years of age. It wasastonishing—many honest folks averred—how ungrateful were thesejuvenile convicts for the goods the Government had provided for them. From theextremity of Long Bay, as the extension of the sea-arm was named, aconvict-made tramroad ran due north, through the nearly impenetrable thicket toNorfolk Bay. In the mouth of Norfolk Bay was Woody Island. This was used as asignal station, and an armed boat's crew was stationed there. To the north ofWoody Island lay One-tree Point—the southernmost projection of the dropof the earring; and the sea that ran between narrowed to the eastward until itstruck on the sandy bar of Eaglehawk Neck. Eaglehawk Neck was the link thatconnected the two drops of the earring. It was a strip of sand four hundred andfifty yards across. On its eastern side the blue waters of Pirates' Bay, thatis to say, of the Southern Ocean, poured their unchecked force. The isthmusemerged from a wild and terrible coast-line, into whose bowels the ravenous seahad bored strange caverns, resonant with perpetual roar of tortured billows. Atone spot in this wilderness the ocean had penetrated the wall of rock for twohundred feet, and in stormy weather the salt spray rose through a perpendicularshaft more than five hundred feet deep. This place was called the Devil'sBlow-hole. The upper drop of the earring was named Forrestier's Peninsula, andwas joined to the mainland by another isthmus called East Bay Neck.Forrestier's Peninsula was an almost impenetrable thicket, growing to the brinkof a perpendicular cliff of basalt.

Eaglehawk Neck was the door to the prison, and it was kept bolted. On thenarrow strip of land was built a guard-house, where soldiers from the barrackon the mainland relieved each other night and day; and on stages, set out inthe water in either side, watch-dogs were chained. The station officer wascharged "to pay special attention to the feeding and care" of these usefulbeasts, being ordered "to report to the Commandant whenever any one of thembecame useless". It may be added that the bay was not innocent of sharks.Westward from Eaglehawk Neck and Woody Island lay the dreaded Coal Mines. Sixtyof the "marked men" were stationed here under a strong guard. At the Coal Mineswas the northernmost of that ingenious series of semaphores which renderedescape almost impossible. The wild and mountainous character of the peninsulaoffered peculiar advantages to the signalmen. On the summit of the hill whichoverlooked the guard-towers of the settlement was a gigantic gum-tree stump,upon the top of which was placed a semaphore. This semaphore communicated withthe two wings of the prison—Eaglehawk Neck and the Coal Mines—bysending a line of signals right across the peninsula. Thus, the settlementcommunicated with Mount Arthur, Mount Arthur with One-tree Hill, One-tree Hillwith Mount Communication, and Mount Communication with the Coal Mines. On theother side, the signals would run thus—the settlement to Signal Hill,Signal Hill to Woody Island, Woody Island to Eaglehawk. Did a prisoner escapefrom the Coal Mines, the guard at Eaglehawk Neck could be aroused, and thewhole island informed of the "bolt" in less than twenty minutes. With theseadvantages of nature and art, the prison was held to be the most secure in theworld. Colonel Arthur reported to the Home Government that the spot which borehis name was a "natural penitentiary". The worthy disciplinarian probably tookas a personal compliment the polite forethought of the Almighty in thusconsiderately providing for the carrying out of the celebrated "Regulations forConvict Discipline".

CHAPTER XXI. A VISIT OF INSPECTION.

One afternoon ever-active semaphores transmitted a piece of intelligencewhich set the peninsula agog. Captain Frere, having arrived from head-quarters,with orders to hold an inquiry into the death of Kirkland, was not unlikely tomake a progress through the stations, and it behoved the keepers of the NaturalPenitentiary to produce their Penitents in good case. Burgess was in highspirits at finding so congenial a soul selected for the task of reporting uponhim.

"It's only a nominal thing, old man," Frere said to his former comrade, whenthey met. "That parson has made meddling, and they want to close hismouth."

"I am glad to have the opportunity of showing you and Mrs. Frere the place,"returned Burgess. "I must try and make your stay as pleasant as I can, thoughI'm afraid that Mrs. Frere will not find much to amuse her."

"Frankly, Captain Burgess," said Sylvia, "I would rather have gone straightto Sydney. My husband, however, was obliged to come, and of course Iaccompanied him."

"You will not have much society," said Meekin, who was of the welcomingparty. "Mrs. Datchett, the wife of one of our stipendiaries, is the only ladyhere, and I hope to have the pleasure of making you acquainted with her thisevening at the Commandant's. Mr. McNab, whom you know, is in command at theNeck, and cannot leave, or you would have seen him."

"I have planned a little party," said Burgess, "but I fear that it will notbe so successful as I could wish."

"You wretched old bachelor," said Frere; "you should get married, likeme."

"Ah!" said Burgess, with a bow, "that would be difficult."

Sylvia was compelled to smile at the compliment, made in the presence ofsome twenty prisoners, who were carrying the various trunks and packages up thehill, and she remarked that the said prisoners grinned at the Commandant'sclumsy courtesy. "I don't like Captain Burgess, Maurice," she said, in theinterval before dinner. "I dare say he did flog that poor fellow to death. Helooks as if he could do it."

"Nonsense!" said Maurice, pettishly; "he's a good fellow enough. Besides,I've seen the doctor's certificate. It's a trumped-up story. I can't understandyour absurd sympathy with prisoners."

"Don't they sometimes deserve sympathy?"

"No, certainly not—a set of lying scoundrels. You are always whiningover them, Sylvia. I don't like it, and I've told you before about it."

Sylvia said nothing. Maurice was often guilty of these small brutalities,and she had learnt that the best way to meet them was by silence.Unfortunately, silence did not mean indifference, for the reproof was unjust,and nothing stings a woman's fine sense like an injustice. Burgess had prepareda feast, and the "Society" of Port Arthur was present. Father Flaherty, Meekin,Doctor Macklewain, and Mr. and Mrs. Datchett had been invited, and thedining-room was resplendent with glass and flowers.

"I've a fellow who was a professional gardener," said Burgess to Sylviaduring the dinner, "and I make use of his talents."

"We have a professional artist also," said Macklewain, with a sort of pride."That picture of the 'Prisoner of Chillon' yonder was painted by him. A verymeritorious production, is it not?"

"I've got the place full of curiosities," said Burgess; "quite a collection.I'll show them to you to-morrow. Those napkin rings were made by aprisoner."

"Ah!" cried Frere, taking up the daintily-carved bone, "very neat!"

"That is some of Rex's handiwork," said Meekin. "He is very clever at thesetrifles. He made me a paper-cutter that was really a work of art."

"We will go down to the Neck to-morrow or next day, Mrs. Frere," saidBurgess, "and you shall see the Blow-hole. It is a curious place."

"Is it far?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh no! We shall go in the train."

"The train!"

"Yes—don't look so astonished. You'll see it to-morrow. Oh, you HobartTown ladies don't know what we can do here."

"What about this Kirkland business?" Frere asked. "I suppose I can have halfan hour with you in the morning, and take the depositions?"

"Any time you like, my dear fellow," said Burgess. "It's all the same tome."

"I don't want to make more fuss than I can help," Frere saidapologetically—the dinner had been good—"but I must send thesepeople up a 'full, true and particular', don't you know."

"Of course," cried Burgess, with friendly nonchalance. "That's all right. Iwant Mrs. Frere to see Point Puer."

"Where the boys are?" asked Sylvia.

"Exactly. Nearly three hundred of 'em. We'll go down to-morrow, and youshall be my witness, Mrs. Frere, as to the way they are treated."

"Indeed," said Sylvia, protesting, "I would rather not. I—I don't takethe interest in these things that I ought, perhaps. They are very dreadful tome."

"Nonsense!" said Frere, with a scowl. "We'll come, Burgess, of course." Thenext two days were devoted to sight-seeing. Sylvia was taken through thehospital and the workshops, shown the semaphores, and shut up by Maurice in a"dark cell". Her husband and Burgess seemed to treat the prison like a tameanimal, whom they could handle at their leisure, and whose natural ferocity waskept in check by their superior intelligence. This bringing of a young andpretty woman into immediate contact with bolts and bars had about it anincongruity which pleased them. Maurice penetrated everywhere, questioned theprisoners, jested with the gaolers, even, in the munificence of his heart,bestowed tobacco on the sick.

With such graceful rattlings of dry bones, they got by and by to Point Puer,where a luncheon had been provided.

An unlucky accident had occurred at Point Puer that morning, however, andthe place was in a suppressed ferment. A refractory little thief named PeterBrown, aged twelve years, had jumped off the high rock and drowned himself infull view of the constables. These "jumpings off" had become rather frequentlately, and Burgess was enraged at one happening on this particular day. If hecould by any possibility have brought the corpse of poor little Peter Brown tolife again, he would have soundly whipped it for its impertinence.

"It is most unfortunate," he said to Frere, as they stood in the cell wherethe little body was laid, "that it should have happened to-day."

"Oh," says Frere, frowning down upon the young face that seemed to smile upat him. "It can't be helped. I know those young devils. They'd do it out ofspite. What sort of a character had he?"

"Very bad—Johnson, the book."

Johnson bringing it, the two saw Peter Brown's iniquities set down in theneatest of running hand, and the record of his punishments ornamented in quitean artistic way with flourishes of red ink

"20th November, disorderly conduct, 12 lashes. 24th November, insolence tohospital attendant, diet reduced. 4th December, stealing cap from anotherprisoner, 12 lashes. 15th December, absenting himself at roll call, two days'cells. 23rd December, insolence and insubordination, two days' cells. 8thJanuary, insolence and insubordination, 12 lashes. 20th January, insolence andinsubordination, 12 lashes. 22nd February, insolence and insubordination, 12lashes and one week's solitary. 6th March, insolence and insubordination, 20lashes."

"That was the last?" asked Frere.

"Yes, sir," says Johnson.

"And then he—hum—did it?"

"Just so, sir. That was the way of it."

Just so! The magnificent system starved and tortured a child of twelve untilhe killed himself. That was the way of it.

After luncheon the party made a progress. Everything was most admirable.There was a long schoolroom, where such men as Meekin taught how Christ lovedlittle children; and behind the schoolroom were the cells and the constablesand the little yard where they gave their "twenty lashes". Sylvia shuddered atthe array of faces. From the stolid nineteen years old booby of the Kentishhop-fields, to the wizened, shrewd, ten years old Bohemian of the Londonstreets, all degrees and grades of juvenile vice grinned, in untamablewickedness, or snuffed in affected piety. "Suffer little children to come untoMe, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," said, or isreported to have said, the Founder of our Established Religion. Of such itseemed that a large number of Honourable Gentlemen, together with Her Majesty'sfaithful commons in Parliament assembled, had done their best to create aKingdom of Hell.

After the farce had been played again, and the children had stood up and satdown, and sung a hymn, and told how many twice five were, and repeated theirbelief in "One God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth", the partyreviewed the workshops, and saw the church, and went everywhere but into theroom where the body of Peter Brown, aged twelve, lay starkly on its woodenbench, staring at the gaol roof which was between it and Heaven.

Just outside this room, Sylvia met with a little adventure. Meekin hadstopped behind, and Burgess, being suddenly summoned for some official duty,Frere had gone with him, leaving his wife to rest on a bench that, placed atthe summit of the cliff, overlooked the sea. While resting thus, she becameaware of another presence, and, turning her head, beheld a small boy, with hiscap in one hand and a hammer in the other. The appearance of the littlecreature, clad in a uniform of grey cloth that was too large for him, andholding in his withered little hand a hammer that was too heavy for him, hadsomething pathetic about it.

"What is it, you mite?" asked Sylvia.

"We thought you might have seen him, mum," said the little figure, openingits blue eyes with wonder at the kindness of the tone. "Him! Whom?"

"Cranky Brown, mum," returned the child; "him as did it this morning. Me andBilly knowed him, mum; he was a mate of ours, and we wanted to know if helooked happy."

"What do you mean, child?" said she, with a strange terror at her heart; andthen, filled with pity at the aspect of the little being, she drew him to her,with sudden womanly instinct, and kissed him. He looked up at her with joyfulsurprise. "Oh!" he said.

Sylvia kissed him again.

"Does nobody ever kiss you, poor little man?" said she.

"Mother used to," was the reply, "but she's at home. Oh, mum," with a suddencrimsoning of the little face, "may I fetch Billy?"

And taking courage from the bright young face, he gravely marched to anangle of the rock, and brought out another little creature, with another greyuniform and another hammer.

"This is Billy, mum," he said. "Billy never had no mother. Kiss Billy."

The young wife felt the tears rush to her eyes. "You two poor babies!" shecried. And then, forgetting that she was a lady, dressed in silk and lace, shefell on her knees in the dust, and, folding the friendless pair in her arms,wept over them.

"What is the matter, Sylvia?" said Frere, when he came up. "You've beencrying."

"Nothing, Maurice; at least, I will tell you by and by."

When they were alone that evening, she told him of the two little boys, andhe laughed. "Artful little humbugs," he said, and supported his argument by somany illustrations of the precocious wickedness of juvenile felons, that hiswife was half convinced against her will.

*

Unfortunately, when Sylvia went away, Tommy and Billy put into execution aplan which they had carried in their poor little heads for some weeks.

"I can do it now," said Tommy. "I feel strong."

"Will it hurt much, Tommy?" said Billy, who was not so courageous.

"Not so much as a whipping."

"I'm afraid! Oh, Tom, it's so deep! Don't leave me, Tom!"

The bigger boy took his little handkerchief from his neck, and with it boundhis own left hand to his companion's right.

"Now I can't leave you."

"What was it the lady that kissed us said, Tommy?"

"Lord, have pity on them two fatherless children!" repeated Tommy. "Let'ssay it together."

And so the two babies knelt on the brink of the cliff, and, raising thebound hands together, looked up at the sky, and ungrammatically said, "Lordhave pity on we two fatherless children!" And then they kissed each other, and"did it".

*

The intelligence, transmitted by the ever-active semaphore, reached theCommandant in the midst of dinner, and in his agitation he blurted it out.

"These are the two poor things I saw in the morning," cried Sylvia. "Oh,Maurice, these two poor babies driven to suicide!"

"Condemning their young souls to everlasting fire," said Meekin,piously.

"Mr. Meekin! How can you talk like that? Poor little creatures! Oh, it'shorrible! Maurice, take me away." And she burst into a passion of weeping. "Ican't help it, ma'am," says Burgess, rudely, ashamed. "It ain't my fault."

"She's nervous," says Frere, leading her away. "You must excuse her. Comeand lie down, dearest."

"I will not stay here longer," said she. "Let us go to-morrow."

"We can't," said Frere.

"Oh, yes, we can. I insist. Maurice, if you love me, take me away."

"Well," said Maurice, moved by her evident grief, "I'll try."

He spoke to Burgess. "Burgess, this matter has unsettled my wife, so thatshe wants to leave at once. I must visit the Neck, you know. How can we doit?"

"Well," says Burgess, "if the wind only holds, the brig could go round toPirates' Bay and pick you up. You'll only be a night at the barracks."

"I think that would be best," said Frere. "We'll start to-morrow, please,and if you'll give me a pen and ink I'll be obliged."

"I hope you are satisfied," said Burgess.

"Oh yes, quite," said Frere. "I must recommend more careful supervision atPoint Puer, though. It will never do to have these young blackguards slippingthrough our fingers in this way."

So a neatly written statement of the occurrence was appended to the ledgersin which the names of William Tomkins and Thomas Grove were entered. Macklewainheld an inquest, and nobody troubled about them any more. Why should they? Theprisons of London were full of such Tommys and Billys.

*

Sylvia passed through the rest of her journey in a dream of terror. Theincident of the children had shaken her nerves, and she longed to be away fromthe place and its associations. Even Eaglehawk Neck with its curious dog stagesand its "natural pavement", did not interest her. McNab's blandishments werewearisome. She shuddered as she gazed into the boiling abyss of the Blow-hole,and shook with fear as the Commandant's "train" rattled over the dangeroustramway that wound across the precipice to Long Bay. The "train" was composedof a number of low wagons pushed and dragged up the steep inclines by convicts,who drew themselves up in the wagons when the trucks dashed down the slope, andacted as drags. Sylvia felt degraded at being thus drawn by human beings, andtrembled when the lash cracked, and the convicts answered to thesting—like cattle. Moreover, there was among the foremost of these beastsof burden a face that had dimly haunted her girlhood, and only lately vanishedfrom her dreams. This face looked on her—she thought—with bitterestloathing and scorn, and she felt relieved when at the midday halt its owner wasordered to fall out from the rest, and was with four others re-chained for thehomeward journey. Frere, struck with the appearance of the five, said, "ByJove, Poppet, there are our old friends Rex and Dawes, and the others. Theywon't let 'em come all the way, because they are such a desperate lot, theymight make a rush for it." Sylvia comprehended now the face was the face ofDawes; and as she looked after him, she saw him suddenly raise his hands abovehis head with a motion that terrified her. She felt for an instant a greatshock of pitiful recollection. Staring at the group, she strove to recall whenand how Rufus Dawes, the wretch from whose clutches her husband had saved her,had ever merited her pity, but her clouded memory could not complete thepicture, and as the wagons swept round a curve, and the group disappeared, sheawoke from her reverie with a sigh.

"Maurice," she whispered, "how is it that the sight of that man always makesme sad?"

Her husband frowned, and then, caressing her, bade her forget the man andthe place and her fears. "I was wrong to have insisted on your coming," hesaid. They stood on the deck of the Sydney-bound vessel the next morning, andwatched the "Natural Penitentiary" grow dim in the distance. "You were notstrong enough."

*

"Dawes," said John Rex, "you love that girl! Now that you've seen heranother man's wife, and have been harnessed like a beast to drag him along theroad, while he held her in his arms!—now that you've seen and sufferedthat, perhaps you'll join us."

Rufus Dawes made a movement of agonized impatience.

"You'd better. You'll never get out of this place any other way. Come, be aman; join us!"

"No!"

"It is your only chance. Why refuse it? Do you want to live here all yourlife?"

"I want no sympathy from you or any other. I will not join you."

Rex shrugged his shoulders and walked away. "If you think to get any goodout of that 'inquiry', you are mightily mistaken," said he, as he went. "Frerehas put a stopper upon that, you'll find." He spoke truly. Nothing more washeard of it, only that, some six months afterwards, Mr. North, when atParramatta, received an official letter (in which the expenditure of wax andprinting and paper was as large as it could be made) which informed him thatthe "Comptroller-General of the Convict Department had decided that furtherinquiry concerning the death of the prisoner named in the margin wasunnecessary", and that some gentleman with an utterly illegible signature "hadthe honour to be his most obedient servant".

CHAPTER XXII. GATHERING IN THE THREADS.

Maurice found his favourable expectations of Sydney fully realized. Hisnotable escape from death at Macquarie Harbour, his alliance with the daughterof so respected a colonist as Major Vickers, and his reputation as a convictdisciplinarian rendered him a man of note. He received a vacant magistracy, andbecame even more noted for hardness of heart and artfulness of prison knowledgethan before. The convict population spoke of him as "that ——Frere," and registered vows of vengeance against him, which he laughed—inhis bluffness—to scorn.

One anecdote concerning the method by which he shepherded his flock willsuffice to show his character and his value. It was his custom to visit theprison-yard at Hyde Park Barracks twice a week. Visitors to convicts were, ofcourse, armed, and the two pistol-butts that peeped from Frere's waistcoatattracted many a longing eye. How easy would it be for some fellow to pluck oneforth and shatter the smiling, hateful face of the noted disciplinarian! Frere,however, brave to rashness, never would bestow his weapons more safely, butlounged through the yard with his hands in the pockets of his shooting-coat,and the deadly butts ready to the hand of anyone bold enough to take them.

One day a man named Kavanagh, a captured absconder, who had openly sworn inthe dock the death of the magistrate, walked quickly up to him as he waspassing through the yard, and snatched a pistol from his belt. The yard caughtit* breath, and the attendant warder, hearing the click of the lock,instinctively turned his head away, so that he might not be blinded by theflash. But Kavanagh did not fire. At the instant when his hand was on thepistol, he looked up and met the magnetic glance of Frere's imperious eyes. Aneffort, and the spell would have been broken. A twitch of the finger, and hisenemy would have fallen dead. There was an instant when that twitch of thefinger could have been given, but Kavanagh let that instant pass. The dauntlesseye fascinated him. He played with the pistol nervously, while all remainedstupefied. Frere stood, without withdrawing his hands from the pockets intowhich they were plunged.

"That's a fine pistol, Jack," he said at last.

Kavanagh, down whose white face the sweat was pouring, burst into a hideouslaugh of relieved terror, and thrust the weapon, co*cked as it was, back againinto the magistrate's belt.

Frere slowly drew one hand from his pocket, took the co*cked pistol andlevelled it at his recent assailant. "That's the best chance you'll ever get,Jack," said he.

Kavanagh fell on his knees. "For God's sake, Captain Frere!" Frere lookeddown on the trembling wretch, and then unco*cked the pistol, with a laugh offerocious contempt. "Get up, you dog," he said. "It takes a better man than youto best me. Bring him up in the morning, Hawkins, and we'll give himfive-and-twenty."

As he went out—so great is the admiration for Power—the poordevils in the yard cheered him.

One of the first things that this useful officer did upon his arrival inSydney was to inquire for Sarah Purfoy. To his astonishment, he discovered thatshe was the proprietor of large export warehouses in Pitt-street, owned a neatcottage on one of the points of land which jutted into the bay, and was reputedto possess a banking account of no inconsiderable magnitude. He in vain appliedhis brains to solve this mystery. His cast-off mistress had not been rich whenshe left Van Diemen's Land—at least, so she had assured him, andappearances bore out her assurance. How had she accumulated this sudden wealth?Above all, why had she thus invested it? He made inquiries at the banks, butwas snubbed for his pains. Sydney banks in those days did some queer business.Mrs. Purfoy had come to them "fully accredited," said the manager with asmile.

"But where did she get the money?" asked the magistrate. "I am suspicious ofthese sudden fortunes. The woman was a notorious character in Hobart Town, andwhen she left hadn't a penny."

"My dear Captain Frere," said the acute banker—his father had been oneof the builders of the "Rum Hospital"—"it is not the custom of our bankto make inquiries into the previous history of its customers. The bills weregood, you may depend, or we should not have honoured them. Good morning!"

"The bills!" Frere saw but one explanation. Sarah had received the proceedsof some of Rex's rogueries. Rex's letter to his father and the mention of thesum of money "in the old house in Blue Anchor Yard" flashed across his memory.Perhaps Sarah had got the money from the receiver and appropriated it. But whyinvest it in an oil and tallow warehouse? He had always been suspicious of thewoman, because he had never understood her, and his suspicions redoubled.Convinced that there was some plot hatching, he determined to use all theadvantages that his position gave him to discover the secret and bring it tolight. The name of the man to whom Rex's letters had been addressed was"Blicks". He would find out if any of the convicts under his care had heard ofBlicks. Prosecuting his inquiries in the proper direction, he soon obtained areply. Blicks was a London receiver of stolen goods, known to at least a dozenof the black sheep of the Sydney fold. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy,had often been tried, but never convicted. Frere was thus not much nearerenlightenment than before, and an incident occurred a few months afterwardswhich increased his bewilderment He had not been long established in hismagistracy, when Blunt came to claim payment for the voyage of Sarah Purfoy."There's that schooner going begging, one may say, sir," said Blunt, when theoffice door was shut.

"What schooner?"

"The Franklin."

Now the Franklin was a vessel of three hundred and twenty tons which pliedbetween Norfolk Island and Sydney, as the Osprey had plied in the old daysbetween Macquarie Harbour and Hobart Town. "I am afraid that is rather stiff,Blunt," said Frere. "That's one of the best billets going, you know. I doubt ifI have enough interest to get it for you. Besides," he added, eyeing the sailorcritically, "you are getting oldish for that sort of thing, ain't you?"

Phineas Blunt stretched his arms wide, and opened his mouth, full of soundwhite teeth. "I am good for twenty years more yet, sir," he said. "My fatherwas trading to the Indies at seventy-five years of age. I'm hearty enough,thank God; for, barring a drop of rum now and then, I've no vices to speak of.However, I ain't in a hurry, Captain, for a month or so; only I thought I'd jogyour memory a bit, d ye see."

"Oh, you're not in a hurry; where are you going then?"

"Well," said Blunt, shifting on his seat, uneasy under Frere'sconvict-disciplined eye, "I've got a job on hand."

"Glad of it, I'm sure. What sort of a job?"

"A job of whaling," said Blunt, more uneasy than before.

"Oh, that's it, is it? Your old line of business. And who employs you now?"There was no suspicion in the tone, and had Blunt chosen to evade the question,he might have done so without difficulty, but he replied as one who hadanticipated such questioning, and had been advised how to answer it.

"Mrs. Purfoy."

"What!" cried Frere, scarcely able to believe his ears.

"She's got a couple of ships now, Captain, and she made me skipper of one of'em. We look for beshdellamare [beche-de-la-mer], and take a turn at harpooningsometimes."

Frere stared at Blunt, who stared at the window. There was—so theinstinct of the magistrate told him—some strange project afoot. Yet thatcommon sense which so often misleads us, urged that it was quite natural Sarahshould employ whaling vessels to increase her trade. Granted that there wasnothing wrong about her obtaining the business, there was nothing strange abouther owning a couple of whaling vessels. There were people in Sydney, of nobetter origin, who owned half-a-dozen. "Oh," said he. "And when do youstart?"

"I'm expecting to get the word every day," returned Blunt, apparentlyrelieved, "and I thought I'd just come and see you first, in case of anythingfalling in." Frere played with a pen-knife on the table in silence for a while,allowing it to fall through his fingers with a series of sharp clicks, and thenhe said, "Where does she get the money from?"

"Blest if I know!" said Blunt, in unaffected simplicity. "That's beyond me.She says she saved it. But that's all my eye, you know."

"You don't know anything about it, then?" cried Frere, suddenly fierce.

"No, not I."

"Because, if there's any game on, she'd better take care," he cried,relapsing, in his excitement, into the convict vernacular. "She knows me. Tellher that I've got my eyes on her. Let her remember her bargain. If she runs anyrigs on me, let her take care." In his suspicious wrath he so savagely andunwarily struck downwards with the open pen-knife that it shut upon hisfingers, and cut him to the bone.

"I'll tell her," said Blunt, wiping his brow. "I'm sure she wouldn't go tosell you. But I'll look in when I come back, sir." When he got outside he drewa long breath. "By the Lord Harry, but it's a ticklish game to play," he saidto himself, with a lively recollection of the dreaded Frere's vehemence; "andthere's only one woman in the world I'd be fool enough to play it for."

Maurice Frere, oppressed with suspicions, ordered his horse that afternoon,and rode down to see the cottage which the owner of "Purfoy Stores" hadpurchased. He found it a low white building, situated four miles from the city,at the extreme end of a tongue of land which ran into the deep waters of theharbour. A garden carefully cultivated, stood between the roadway and thehouse, and in this garden he saw a man digging.

"Does Mrs. Purfoy live here?" he asked, pushing open one of the irongates.

The man replied in the affirmative, staring at the visitor with somesuspicion.

"Is she at home?"

"No."

"You are sure?"

"If you don't believe me, ask at the house," was the reply, given in theuncourteous tone of a free man.

Frere pushed his horse through the gate, and walked up the broad andwell-kept carriage drive. A man-servant in livery, answering his ring, told himthat Mrs. Purfoy had gone to town, and then shut the door in his face. Frere,more astonished than ever at these outward and visible signs of independence,paused, indignant, feeling half inclined to enter despite opposition. As helooked through the break of the trees, he saw the masts of a brig lying atanchor off the extremity of the point on which the house was built, andunderstood that the cottage commanded communication by water as well as byland. Could there be a special motive in choosing such a situation, or was itmere chance? He was uneasy, but strove to dismiss his alarm.

Sarah had kept faith with him so far. She had entered upon a new and morereputable life, and why should he seek to imagine evil where perhaps no evilwas? Blunt was evidently honest. Women like Sarah Purfoy often emerged into acondition of comparative riches and domestic virtue. It was likely that, afterall, some wealthy merchant was the real owner of the house and garden, pleasureyacht, and tallow warehouse, and that he had no cause for fear.

The experienced convict disciplinarian did not rate the ability of John Rexhigh enough.

From the instant the convict had heard his sentence of life banishment, hehad determined upon escaping, and had brought all the powers of his acute andunscrupulous intellect to the consideration of the best method of achieving hispurpose. His first care was to procure money. This he thought to do by writingto Blick, but when informed by Meekin of the fate of his letter, he adoptedthe—to him—less pleasant alternative of procuring it through SarahPurfoy.

It was peculiar to the man's hard and ungrateful nature that, despite theattachment of the woman who had followed him to his place of durance, and hadmade it the object of her life to set him free, he had cherished for her noaffection. It was her beauty that had attracted him, when, as Mr. LionelCrofton, he swaggered in the night-society of London. Her talents and herdevotion were secondary considerations—useful to him as attributes of acreature he owned, but not to be thought of when his fancy wearied of itschoice. During the twelve years which had passed since his rashness haddelivered him into the hands of the law at the house of Green, the coiner, hehad been oppressed with no regrets for her fate. He had, indeed, seen andsuffered so much that the old life had been put away from him. When, on hisreturn, he heard that Sarah Purfoy was still in Hobart Town, he was glad, forhe knew that he had an ally who would do her utmost to help him—she hadshown that on board the Malabar. But he was also sorry, for he remembered thatthe price she would demand for her services was his affection, and that hadcooled long ago. However, he would make use of her. There might be a way todiscard her if she proved troublesome.

His pretended piety had accomplished the end he had assumed it for. DespiteFrere's exposure of his cryptograph, he had won the confidence of Meekin; andinto that worthy creature's ear he poured a strange and sad story. He was theson, he said, of a clergyman of the Church of England, whose real name, suchwas his reverence for the cloth, should never pass his lips. He was transportedfor a forgery which he did not commit. Sarah Purfoy was his wife—hiserring, lost and yet loved wife. She, an innocent and trusting girl, haddetermined—strong in the remembrance of that promise she had made at thealtar—to follow her husband to his place of doom, and had hired herselfas lady's-maid to Mrs. Vickers. Alas! fever prostrated that husband on a bed ofsickness, and Maurice Frere, the profligate and the villain, had takenadvantage of the wife's unprotected state to ruin her! Rex darkly hinted howthe seducer made his power over the sick and helpless husband a weapon againstthe virtue of the wife and so terrified poor Meekin that, had it not "happenedso long ago", he would have thought it necessary to look with some disfavourupon the boisterous son-in-law of Major Vickers.

"I bear him no ill-will, sir," said Rex. "I did at first. There was a timewhen I could have killed him, but when I had him in my power, I—as youknow—forbore to strike. No, sir, I could not commit murder!"

"Very proper," says Meekin, "very proper indeed." "God will punish him inHis own way, and His own time," continued Rex. "My great sorrow is for the poorwoman. She is in Sydney, I have heard, living respectably, sir; and my heartbleeds for her." Here Rex heaved a sigh that would have made his fortune on theboards.

"My poor fellow," said Meekin. "Do you know where she is?"

"I do, sir."

"You might write to her."

John Rex appeared to hesitate, to struggle with himself, and finally to takea deep resolve. "No, Mr. Meekin, I will not write."

"Why not?"

"You know the orders, sir—the Commandant reads all the letters sent.Could I write to my poor Sarah what other eyes were to read?" and he watchedthe parson slyly.

"N—no, you could not," said Meekin, at last.

"It is true, sir," said Rex, letting his head sink on his breast. The nextday, Meekin, blushing with the consciousness that what he was about to do waswrong, said to his penitent, "If you will promise to write nothing that theCommandant might not see, Rex, I will send your letter to your wife."

"Heaven bless you, sir,". said Rex, and took two days to compose an epistlewhich should tell Sarah Purfoy how to act. The letter was a model ofcomposition in one way. It stated everything clearly and succinctly. Not adetail that could assist was omitted—not a line that could embarrass wassuffered to remain. John Rex's scheme of six months' deliberation was set downin the clearest possible manner. He brought his letter unsealed to Meekin.Meekin looked at it with an interest that was half suspicion. "Have I your wordthat there is nothing in this that might not be read by the Commandant?"

John Rex was a bold man, but at the sight of the deadly thing flutteringopen in the clergyman's hand, his knees knocked together. Strong in hisknowledge of human nature, however, he pursued his desperate plan. "Read it,sir," he said turning away his face reproachfully. "You are a gentleman. I cantrust you."

"No, Rex," said Meekin, walking loftily into the pitfall; "I do not readprivate letters." It was sealed, and John Rex felt as if somebody had withdrawna match from a powder barrel.

In a month Mr. Meekin received a letter, beautifully written, from "SarahRex", stating briefly that she had heard of his goodness, that the enclosedletter was for her husband, and that if it was against the rules to give ithim, she begged it might be returned to her unread. Of course Meekin gave it toRex, who next morning handed to Meekin a most touching pious production,begging him to read it. Meekin did so, and any suspicions he may have had wereat once disarmed. He was ignorant of the fact that the pious letter contained aprivate one intended for John Rex only, which letter John Rex thought so highlyof, that, having read it twice through most attentively, he ate it.

The plan of escape was after all a simple one. Sarah Purfoy was to obtainfrom Blicks the moneys he held in trust, and to embark the sum thus obtained inany business which would suffer her to keep a vessel hovering round thesouthern coast of Van Diemen's Land without exciting suspicion. The escape wasto be made in the winter months, if possible, in June or July. The watchfulvessel was to be commanded by some trustworthy person, who was to frequentlyland on the south-eastern side, and keep a look-out for any extraordinaryappearance along the coast. Rex himself must be left to run the gauntlet of thedogs and guards unaided. "This seems a desperate scheme," wrote Rex, "but it isnot so wild as it looks. I have thought over a dozen others, and rejected themall. This is the only way. Consider it well. I have my own plan for escape,which is easy if rescue be at hand. All depends upon placing a trustworthy manin charge of the vessel. You ought to know a dozen such. I will wait eighteenmonths to give you time to make all arrangements." The eighteen months had nownearly passed over, and the time for the desperate attempt drew near. Faithfulto his cruel philosophy, John Rex had provided scape-goats, who, by theirvicarious agonies, should assist him to his salvation.

He had discovered that of the twenty men in his gang eight had alreadydetermined on an effort for freedom. The names of these eight were Gabbett,Vetch, Bodenham, Cornelius, Greenhill, Sanders, called the "Moocher", Cox, andTravers. The leading spirits were Vetch and Gabbett, who, with profoundreverence, requested the "Dandy" to join. John Rex, ever suspicious, andfeeling repelled by the giant's strange eagerness, at first refused, but bydegrees allowed himself to appear to be drawn into the scheme. He would urgethese men to their fate, and take advantage of the excitement attendant ontheir absence to effect his own escape. "While all the island is looking forthese eight boobies, I shall have a good chance to slip away unmissed." Hewished, however, to have a companion. Some strong man, who, if pressed hard,would turn and keep the pursuers at bay, would be useful without doubt; andthis comrade-victim he sought in Rufus Dawes.

Beginning, as we have seen, from a purely selfish motive, to urge hisfellow-prisoner to abscond with him, John Rex gradually found himself attractedinto something like friendliness by the sternness with which his overtures wererepelled. Always a keen student of human nature, the scoundrel saw beneath theroughness with which it had pleased the unfortunate man to shroud his agony,how faithful a friend and how ardent and undaunted a spirit was concealed.There was, moreover, a mystery about Rufus Dawes which Rex, the reader ofhearts, longed to fathom.

"Have you no friends whom you would wish to see?" he asked, one evening,when Rufus Dawes had proved more than usually deaf to his arguments.

"No," said Dawes gloomily. "My friends are all dead to me."

"What, all?" asked the other. "Most men have some one whom they wish tosee."

Rufus Dawes laughed a slow, heavy laugh. "I am better here."

"Then are you content to live this dog's life?"

"Enough, enough," said Dawes. "I am resolved."

"Pooh! Pluck up a spirit," cried Rex. "It can't fail. I've been thinking ofit for eighteen months, and it can't fail."

"Who are going?" asked the other, his eyes fixed on the ground. John Rexenumerated the eight, and Dawes raised his head. "I won't go. I have had twotrials at it; I don't want another. I would advise you not to attempt iteither."

"Why not?"

"Gabbett bolted twice before," said Rufus Dawes, shuddering at theremembrance of the ghastly object he had seen in the sunlit glen at Hell'sGates. "Others went with him, but each time he returned alone."

"What do you mean?" asked Rex, struck by the tone of his companion.

"What became of the others?"

"Died, I suppose," said the Dandy, with a forced laugh.

"Yes; but how? They were all without food. How came the surviving monster tolive six weeks?"

John Rex grew a shade paler, and did not reply. He recollected thesanguinary legend that pertained to Gabbett's rescue. But he did not intend tomake the journey in his company, so, after all, he had no cause for fear. "Comewith me then," he said, at length. "We will try our luck together."

"No. I have resolved. I stay here."

"And leave your innocence unproved."

"How can I prove it?" cried Rufus Dawes, roughly impatient. "There arecrimes committed which are never brought to light, and this is one ofthem."

"Well," said Rex, rising, as if weary of the discussion, "have it your ownway, then. You know best. The private detective game is hard work. I, myself,have gone on a wild-goose chase before now. There's a mystery about a certainship-builder's son which took me four months to unravel, and then I lost thethread."

"A ship-builder's son! Who was he?"

John Rex paused in wonderment at the eager interest with which the questionwas put, and then hastened to take advantage of this new opening forconversation. "A queer story. A well-known character in my time—SirRichard Devine. A miserly old curmudgeon, with a scapegrace son."

Rufus Dawes bit his lips to avoid showing his emotion. This was the secondtime that the name of his dead father had been spoken in his hearing. "I thinkI remember something of him," he said, with a voice that sounded strangely calmin his own ears.

"A curious story," said Rex, plunging into past memories. "Amongst othermatters, I dabbled a little in the Private Inquiry line of business, and theold man came to me. He had a son who had gone abroad—a wild young dog, byall accounts—and he wanted particulars of him."

"Did you get them?"

"To a certain extent. I hunted him through Paris into Brussels, fromBrussels to Antwerp, from Antwerp back to Paris. I lost him there. A miserableend to a long and expensive search. I got nothing but a portmanteau with a lotof letters from his mother. I sent the particulars to the ship-builder, and byall accounts the news killed him, for he died not long after."

"And the son?"

"Came to the queerest end of all. The old man had left him hisfortune—a large one, I believe—but he'd left Europe, it seems, forIndia, and was lost in the Hydaspes. Frere was his cousin."

"Ah!"

"By Gad, it annoys me when I think of it," continued Rex, feeling, by forceof memory, once more the adventurer of fashion. "With the resources I had, too.Oh, a miserable failure! The days and nights I've spent walking about lookingfor Richard Devine, and never catching a glimpse of him. The old man gave mehis son's portrait, with full particulars of his early life, and I suppose Icarried that ivory gimcrack in my breast for nearly three months, pulling itout to refresh my memory every half-hour. By Gad, if the young gentleman wasanything like his picture, I could have sworn to him if I'd met him inTimbuctoo."

"Do you think you'd know him again?" asked Rufus Dawes in a low voice,turning away his head.

There may have been something in the attitude in which the speaker had puthimself that awakened memory, or perhaps the subdued eagerness of the tone,contrasting so strangely with the comparative inconsequence of the theme, thatcaused John Rex's brain to perform one of those feats of automatic synthesis atwhich we afterwards wonder. The profligate son—the likeness to theportrait—the mystery of Dawes's life! These were the links of a galvanicchain. He closed the circuit, and a vivid flash revealed to him—THEMAN.

Warder Troke, coming up, put his hand on Rex's shoulder. "Dawes," he said,"you're wanted at the yard"; and then, seeing his mistake, added with a grin,"Curse you two; you're so much alike one can't tell t'other from which."

Rufus Dawes walked off moodily; but John Rex's evil face turned pale, and astrange hope made his heart leap. "Gad, Troke's right; we are alike. I'll notpress him to escape any more."

CHAPTER XXIII. RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.

The Pretty Mary—as ugly and evil-smelling a tub as ever pitched undera southerly burster—had been lying on and off Cape Surville for nearlythree weeks. Captain Blunt was getting wearied. He made strenuous efforts tofind the oyster-beds of which he was ostensibly in search, but no successattended his efforts. In vain did he take boat and pull into every cove andnook between the Hippolyte Reef and Schouten's Island. In vain did he run thePretty Mary as near to the rugged cliffs as he dared to take her, and makeperpetual expeditions to the shore. In vain did he—in his eagerness forthe interests of Mrs. Purfoy—clamber up the rocks, and spend hours insolitary soundings in Blackman's Bay. He never found an oyster. "If I don'tfind something in three or four days more," said he to his mate, "I shall goback again. It's too dangerous cruising here."

*

On the same evening that Captain Blunt made this resolution, the watchman atSignal Hill saw the arms of the semaphore at the settlement make three motions,thus:

The semaphore was furnished with three revolving arms, fixed one above theother. The upper one denoted units, and had six motions, indicating ONE to SIX.The middle one denoted tens, TEN to SIXTY. The lower one marked hundreds, fromONE HUNDRED to SIX HUNDRED.

The lower and upper arms whirled out. That meant THREE HUNDRED AND SIX. Aball ran up to the top of the post. That meant ONE THOUSAND.

Number 1306, or, being interpreted, "PRISONERS ABSCONDED".

"By George, Harry," said Jones, the signalman, "there's a bolt!"

The semaphore signalled again: "Number 1411".

"WITH ARMS!" Jones said, translating as he read. "Come here, Harry! here's ago!"

But Harry did not reply, and, looking down, the watchman saw a dark figuresuddenly fill the doorway. The boasted semaphore had failed this time, at allevents. The "bolters" had arrived as soon as the signal!

The man sprang at his carbine, but the intruder had already possessedhimself of it. "It's no use making a fuss, Jones! There are eight of us. Obligeme by attending to your signals."

Jones knew the voice. It was that of John Rex. "Reply, can't you?" said Rexcoolly. "Captain Burgess is in a hurry." The arms of the semaphore at thesettlement were, in fact, gesticulating with comical vehemence.

Jones took the strings in his hands, and, with his signal-book open beforehim, was about to acknowledge the message, when Rex stopped him. "Send thismessage," he said. "NOT SEEN! SIGNAL SENT TO EAGLEHAWK!"

Jones paused irresolutely. He was himself a convict, and dreaded theinevitable cat that he knew would follow this false message. "If they finds meout—" he said. Rex co*cked the carbine with so decided a meaning in hisblack eyes that Jones—who could be brave enough onoccasions—banished his hesitation at once, and began to signal eagerly.There came up a clinking of metal, and a murmur from below. "What's keepin'yer, Dandy?"

"All right. Get those irons off, and then we'll talk, boys. I'm putting salton old Burgess's tail." The rough jest was received with a roar, and Jones,looking momentarily down from his window on the staging, saw, in the waninglight, a group of men freeing themselves from their irons with a hammer takenfrom the guard-house; while two, already freed, were casting buckets of wateron the beacon wood-pile. The sentry was lying bound at a little distance.

"Now," said the leader of this surprise party, "signal to Woody Island."Jones perforce obeyed. "Say, 'AN ESCAPE AT THE MINES! WATCH ONE-TREE POINT!SEND ON TO EAGLEHAWK!' Quick now!"

Jones—comprehending at once the force of this manoeuvre, which wouldhave the effect of distracting attention from the Neck—executed the orderwith a grin. "You're a knowing one, Dandy Jack," said he.

John Rex acknowledged the compliment by unco*cking the carbine. "Hold outyour hands!—Jemmy Vetch!" "Ay, ay," replied the Crow, from beneath. "Comeup and tie our friend Jones. Gabbett, have you got the axes?" "There's onlyone," said Gabbett, with an oath. "Then bring that, and any tucker you can layyour hands on. Have you tied him? On we go then." And in the space of fiveminutes from the time when unsuspecting Harry had been silently clutched by twoforms, who rushed upon him out of the shadows of the huts, the Signal HillStation was deserted.

At the settlement Burgess was foaming. Nine men to seize the Long Bay boat,and get half an hour's start of the alarm signal, was an unprecedentedachievement! What could Warder Troke have been about! Warder Troke, however,found eight hours afterwards, disarmed, gagged, and bound in the scrub, hadbeen guilty of no negligence. How could he tell that, at a certain signal fromDandy Jack, the nine men he had taken to Stewart's Bay would "rush" him; and,before he could draw a pistol, truss him like a chicken? The worst of the gang,Rufus Dawes, had volunteered for the hated duties of pile-driving, and Trokehad felt himself secure. How could he possibly guess that there was a plot, inwhich Rufus Dawes, of all men, had refused to join?

Constables, mounted and on foot, were despatched to scour the bush round thesettlement. Burgess, confident from the reply of the Signal Hill semaphore,that the alarm had been given at Eaglehawk Isthmus, promised himself there-capture of the gang before many hours; and, giving orders to keep thecommunications going, retired to dinner. His convict servants had barelyremoved the soup when the result of John Rex's ingenuity became manifest.

The semaphore at Signal Hill had stopped working.

"Perhaps the fools can't see," said Burgess. "Fire the beacon—andsaddle my horse." The beacon was fired. All right at Mount Arthur, MountCommunication, and the Coal Mines. To the westward the line was clear. But atSignal Hill was no answering light. Burgess stamped with rage. "Get me myboat's crew ready; and tell the Mines to signal to Woody Island." As he stoodon the jetty, a breathless messenger brought the reply. "A BOAT'S CREW GONE TOONE-TREE POINT! FIVE MEN SENT FROM EAGLEHAWK IN OBEDIENCE TO ORDERS!" Burgessunderstood it at once. The fellows had decoyed the Eaglehawk guard. "Give way,men!" And the boat, shooting into the darkness, made for Long Bay. "I won't befar behind 'em," said the Commandant, "at any rate."

Between Eaglehawk and Signal Hill were, for the absconders, other dangers.Along the indented coast of Port Bunche were four constables' stations. Thesestations—mere huts within signalling distance of each other—fringedthe shore, and to avoid them it would be necessary to make a circuit into thescrub. Unwilling as he was to lose time, John Rex saw that to attempt to runthe gauntlet of these four stations would be destruction. The safety of theparty depended upon the reaching of the Neck while the guard was weakened bythe absence of some of the men along the southern shore, and before the alarmcould be given from the eastern arm of the peninsula. With this view, he rangedhis men in single file; and, quitting the road near Norfolk Bay, made straightfor the Neck. The night had set in with a high westerly wind, and threatenedrain. It was pitch dark; and the fugitives were guided only by the dull roar ofthe sea as it beat upon Descent Beach. Had it not been for the accident of awesterly gale, they would not have had even so much assistance.

The Crow walked first, as guide, carrying a musket taken from Harry. Thencame Gabbett, with an axe; followed by the other six, sharing between them suchprovisions as they had obtained at Signal Hill. John Rex, with the carbine, andTroke's pistols, walked last. It had been agreed that if attacked they were torun each one his own way. In their desperate case, disunion was strength. Atintervals, on their left, gleamed the lights of the constables' stations, andas they stumbled onward they heard plainer and more plainly the hoarse murmurof the sea, beyond which was liberty or death.

After nearly two hours of painful progress, Jemmy Vetch stopped, andwhispered them to approach. They were on a sandy rise. To the left was a blackobject—a constable's hut; to the right was a dim white line—theocean; in front was a row of lamps, and between every two lamps leapt and ran adusky, indistinct body. Jemmy Vetch pointed with his lean forefinger.

"The dogs!"

Instinctively they crouched down, lest even at that distance the twosentries, so plainly visible in the red light of the guard-house fire, shouldsee them.

"Well, bo's," said Gabbett, "what's to be done now?"

As he spoke, a long low howl broke from one of the chained hounds, and thewhole kennel burst into hideous outcry. John Rex, who perhaps was the bravestof the party, shuddered. "They have smelt us," he said. "We must go on."

Gabbett spat in his palm, and took firmer hold of the axe-handle.

"Right you are," he said. "I'll leave my mark on some of them before thisnight's out!"

On the opposite shore lights began to move, and the fugitives could hear thehurrying tramp of feet.

"Make for the right-hand side of the jetty," said Rex in a fierce whisper."I think I see a boat there. It is our only chance now. We can never breakthrough the station. Are we ready? Now! All together!"

Gabbett was fast outstripping the others by some three feet of distance.There were eleven dogs, two of whom were placed on stages set out in the water,and they were so chained that their muzzles nearly touched. The giant leaptinto the line, and with a blow of his axe split the skull of the beast on hisright hand. This action unluckily took him within reach of the other dog, whichseized him by the thigh.

"Fire!" cried McNab from the other side of the lamps.

The giant uttered a cry of rage and pain, and fell with the dog under him.It was, however, the dog who had pulled him down, and the musket-ball intendedfor him struck Travers in the jaw. The unhappy villain fell—like Virgil'sDares—"spitting blood, teeth, and curses."

Gabbett clutched the mastiff's throat with iron hand, and forced him toloose his hold; then, bellowing with fury, seized his axe and sprang forward,mangled as he was, upon the nearest soldier. Jemmy Vetch had been beforehandwith him. Uttering a low snarl of hate, he fired, and shot the sentry throughthe breast. The others rushed through the now broken cordon, and made headlongfor the boat.

"Fools!" cried Rex behind them. "You have wasted a shot! LOOK TO YOURLEFT!"

Burgess, hurried down the tramroad by his men, had tarried at Signal Hillonly long enough to loose the surprised guard from their bonds, and taking theWoody Island boat was pulling with a fresh crew to the Neck. The reinforcementwas not ten yards from the jetty.

The Crow saw the danger, and, flinging himself into the water, desperatelyseized McNab's boat.

"In with you for your lives!" he cried. Another volley from the guardspattered the water around the fugitives, but in the darkness the ill-aimedbullets fell harmless. Gabbett swung himself over the sheets, and seized anoar.

"Cox, Bodenham, Greenhill! Now, push her off! Jump, Tom, jump!" and asBurgess leapt to land, Cornelius was dragged over the stern, and the whale-boatfloated into deep water.

McNab, seeing this, ran down to the water-side to aid the Commandant.

"Lift her over the Bar, men!" he shouted. "With a will—So!" And,raised in twelve strong arms, the pursuing craft slid across the isthmus.

"We've five minutes' start," said Vetch coolly, as he saw the Commandanttake his place in the stern sheets. "Pull away, my jolly boys, and we'll best'em yet."

The soldiers on the Neck fired again almost at random, but the blaze oftheir pieces only served to show the Commandant's boat a hundred yards asternof that of the mutineers, which had already gained the deep water of Pirates'Bay.

Then, for the first time, the six prisoners became aware that John Rex wasnot among them.

CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE NIGHT.

John Rex had put into execution the first part of his scheme.

At the moment when, seeing Burgess's boat near the sand-spit, he had utteredthe warning cry heard by Vetch, he turned back into the darkness, and made forthe water's edge at a point some distance from the Neck. His desperate hope wasthat, the attention of the guard being concentrated on the escaping boat, hemight, favoured by the darkness and the confusion—swim to the peninsula.It was not a very marvellous feat to accomplish, and he had confidence in hisown powers. Once safe on the peninsula, his plans were formed. But, owing tothe strong westerly wind, which caused an incoming tide upon the isthmus, itwas necessary for him to attain some point sufficiently far to the southward toenable him, on taking the water, to be assisted, not impeded, by the current.With this view, he hurried over the sandy hummocks at the entrance to the Neck,and ran backwards towards the sea. In a few strides he had gained the hard andsandy shore, and, pausing to listen, heard behind him the sound of footsteps.He was pursued. The footsteps stopped, and then a voice cried—

"Surrender!"

It was McNab, who, seeing Rex's retreat, had daringly followed him. John Rexdrew from his breast Troke's pistol and waited.

"Surrender!" cried the voice again, and the footsteps advanced twopaces.

At the instant that Rex raised the weapon to fire, a vivid flash oflightning showed him, on his right hand, on the ghastly and pallid ocean, twoboats, the hindermost one apparently within a few yards of him. The men lookedlike corpses. In the distance rose Cape Surville, and beneath Cape Surville wasthe hungry sea. The scene vanished in an instant—swallowed up almostbefore he had realized it. But the shock it gave him made him miss his aim,and, flinging away the pistol with a curse, he turned down the path and fled.McNab followed.

The path had been made by frequent passage from the station, and Rex foundit tolerably easy running. He had acquired—like most men who live much inthe dark—that cat-like perception of obstacles which is due rather toincreased sensitiveness of touch than increased acuteness of vision. His feetaccommodated themselves to the inequalities of the ground; his handsinstinctively outstretched themselves towards the overhanging boughs; his headducked of its own accord to any obtrusive sapling which bent to obstruct hisprogress. His pursuer was not so fortunate. Twice did John Rex laugh mentally,at a crash and scramble that told of a fall, and once—in a valley wheretrickled a little stream that he had cleared almost without an effort—heheard a splash that made him laugh outright. The track now began to go uphill,and Rex redoubled his efforts, trusting to his superior muscular energy toshake off his pursuer. He breasted the rise, and paused to listen. The crashingof branches behind him had ceased, and it seemed that he was alone.

He had gained the summit of the cliff. The lights of the Neck wereinvisible. Below him lay the sea. Out of the black emptiness came puffs ofsharp salt wind. The tops of the rollers that broke below were blown off andwhirled away into the night—white patches, swallowed up immediately inthe increasing darkness. From the north side of the bay was borne the hoarseroar of the breakers as they dashed against the perpendicular cliffs whichguarded Forrestier's Peninsula. At his feet arose a frightful shrieking andwhistling, broken at intervals by reports like claps of thunder. Where was he?Exhausted and breathless, he sank down into the rough scrub and listened. Allat once, on the track over which he had passed, he heard a sound that made himbound to his feet in deadly fear—the bay of a dog!

He thrust his hand to his breast for the remaining pistol, and uttered a cryof alarm. He had dropped it. He felt round about him in the darkness for somestick or stone that might serve as a weapon. In vain. His fingers clutchednothing but prickly scrub and coarse grass. The sweat ran down his face. Withstaring eyeballs, and bristling hair, he stared into the darkness, as if hewould dissipate it by the very intensity of his gaze. The noise was repeated,and, piercing through the roar of wind and water, above and below him, seemedto be close at hand. He heard a man's voice cheering the dog in accents thatthe gale blew away from him before he could recognize them. It was probablethat some of the soldiers had been sent to the assistance of McNab. Capture,then, was certain. In his agony, the wretched man almost promised himselfrepentance, should he escape this peril. The dog, crashing through theunderwood, gave one short, sharp howl, and then ran mute.

The darkness had increased the gale. The wind, ravaging the hollow heaven,had spread between the lightnings and the sea an impenetrable curtain of blackcloud. It seemed possible to seize upon this curtain and draw its edge yetcloser, so dense was it. The white and raging waters were blotted out, and eventhe lightning seemed unable to penetrate that intense blackness. A large, warmdrop of rain fell upon Rex's outstretched hand, and far overhead rumbled awrathful peal of thunder. The shrieking which he had heard a few moments agohad ceased, but every now and then dull but immense shocks, as of some mightybird flapping the cliff with monstrous wings, reverberated around him, andshook the ground where he stood. He looked towards the ocean, and a tall mistyForm—white against the all-pervading blackness—beckoned and bowedto him. He saw it distinctly for an instant, and then, with an awful shriek, asof wrathful despair, it sank and vanished. Maddened with a terror he could notdefine, the hunted man turned to meet the material peril that was so close athand.

With a ferocious gasp, the dog flung himself upon him. John Rex was bornebackwards, but, in his desperation, he clutched the beast by the throat andbelly, and, exerting all his strength, flung him off. The brute uttered onehowl, and seemed to lie where he had fallen; while above his carcase againhovered that white and vaporous column. It was strange that McNab and thesoldier did not follow up the advantage they had gained. Courage—perhapshe should defeat them yet! He had been lucky to dispose of the dog so easily.With a fierce thrill of renewed hope, he ran forward; when at his feet, in hisface, arose that misty Form, breathing chill warning, as though to wave himback. The terror at his heels drove him on. A few steps more, and he shouldgain the summit of the cliff. He could feel the sea roaring in front of him inthe gloom. The column disappeared; and in a lull of wind, uprose from the placewhere it had been such a hideous medley of shrieks, laughter, and exultantwrath, that John Rex paused in horror. Too late. The ground gave way—itseemed—beneath his feet. He was falling—clutching, in vain, atrocks, shrubs, and grass. The cloud-curtain lifted, and by the lightning thatleaped and played about the ocean, John Rex found an explanation of histerrors, more terrible than they themselves had been. The track he had followedled to that portion of the cliff in which the sea had excavated thetunnel-spout known as the Devil's Blow-hole.

Clinging to a tree that, growing half-way down the precipice, had arrestedhis course, he stared into the abyss. Before him—already high above hishead—was a gigantic arch of cliff. Through this arch he saw, at animmense distance below him, the raging and pallid ocean. Beneath him was anabyss splintered with black rocks, turbid and raucous with tortured water.Suddenly the bottom of this abyss seemed to advance to meet him; or, rather,the black throat of the chasm belched a volume of leaping, curling water, whichmounted to drown him. Was it fancy that showed him, on the surface of therising column, the mangled carcase of the dog?

The chasm into which John Rex had fallen was shaped like a huge funnel setup on its narrow end. The sides of this funnel were rugged rock, and in thebanks of earth lodged here and there upon projections, a scrubby vegetationgrew. The scanty growth paused abruptly half-way down the gulf, and the rockbelow was perpetually damp from the upthrown spray. Accident—had theconvict been a Meekin, we might term it Providence—had lodged him on thelowest of these banks of earth. In calm weather he would have been out ofdanger, but the lightning flash revealed to his terror-sharpened sense a blackpatch of dripping rock on the side of the chasm some ten feet above his head.It was evident that upon the next rising of the water-spout the place where hestood would be covered with water.

The roaring column mounted with hideous swiftness. Rex felt it rush at himand swing him upward. With both arms round the tree, he clutched the sleeves ofhis jacket with either hand. Perhaps if he could maintain his hold he mightoutlive the shock of that suffocating torrent. He felt his feet rudely seized,as though by the hand of a giant, and plucked upwards. Water gurgled in hisears. His arms seemed about to be torn from their sockets. Had the strainlasted another instant, he must have loosed his hold; but, with a wild hoarseshriek, as though it was some sea-monster baffled of its prey, the column sank,and left him gasping, bleeding, half-drowned, but alive. It was impossible thathe could survive another shock, and in his agony he unclasped his stiffenedfingers, determined to resign himself to his fate. At that instant, however, hesaw on the wall of rock that hollowed on his right hand, a red and lurid light,in the midst of which fantastically bobbed hither and thither the giganticshadow of a man. He cast his eyes upwards and saw, slowly descending into thegulf, a blazing bush tied to a rope. McNab was taking advantage of the pause inthe spouting to examine the sides of the Blow-hole.

A despairing hope seized John Rex. In another instant the light would revealhis figure, clinging like a limpet to the rock, to those above. He must bedetected in any case; but if they could lower the rope sufficiently, he mightclutch it and be saved. His dread of the horrible death that was beneath himovercame his resolution to avoid recapture. The long-drawn agony of theretreating water as it was sucked back again into the throat of the chasm hadceased, and he knew that the next tremendous pulsation of the sea below wouldhurl the spuming destruction up upon him. The gigantic torch slowly descended,and he had already drawn in his breath for a shout which should make itselfheard above the roar of the wind and water, when a strange appearance on theface of the cliff made him pause. About six feet from him—glowing likemolten gold in the gusty glow of the burning tree—a round sleek stream ofwater slipped from the rock into the darkness, like a serpent from its hole.Above this stream a dark spot defied the torchlight, and John Rex felt hisheart leap with one last desperate hope as he comprehended that close to himwas one of those tortuous drives which the worm-like action of the sea bores insuch caverns as that in which he found himself. The drive, opened first to thelight of the day by the natural convulsion which had raised the mountain itselfabove ocean level, probably extended into the bowels of the cliff. The streamceased to let itself out of the crevice; it was then likely that the risingcolumn of water did not penetrate far into this wonderful hiding-place.

Endowed with a wisdom, which in one placed in less desperate position wouldhave been madness, John Rex shouted to his pursuers. "The rope! the rope!" Thewords, projected against the sides of the enormous funnel, were pitched highabove the blast, and, reduplicated by a thousand echoes, reached the ears ofthose above.

"He's alive!" cried McNab, peering into the abyss. "I see him. Look!"

The soldier whipped the end of the bullock-hide lariat round the tree towhich he held, and began to oscillate it, so that the blazing bush might reachthe ledge on which the daring convict sustained himself. The groan whichpreceded the fierce belching forth of the torrent was cast up to them frombelow.

"God be gude to the puir felly!" said the pious young Scotchman, catchinghis breath.

A white spume was visible at the bottom of the gulf, and the groan changedinto a rapidly increasing bellow. John Rex, eyeing the blazing pendulum, thatwith longer and longer swing momentarily neared him, looked up to the blackheaven for the last time with a muttered prayer. The bush—the flamefanned by the motion—flung a crimson glow upon his frowning featureswhich, as he caught the rope, had a sneer of triumph on them. "Slack out! slackout!" he cried; and then, drawing the burning bush towards him, attempted tostamp out the fire with his feet.

The soldier set his body against the tree trunk, and gripped the rope hard,turning his head away from the fiery pit below him. "Hold tight, your honour,"he muttered to McNab. "She's coming!"

The bellow changed into a roar, the roar into a shriek, and with a gust ofwind and spray, the seething sea leapt up out of the gulf. John Rex, unable toextinguish the flame, twisted his arm about the rope, and the instant beforethe surface of the rising water made a momentary floor to the mouth of thecavern, he spurned the cliff desperately with his feet, and flung himselfacross the chasm. He had already clutched the rock, and thrust himself forward,when the tremendous volume of water struck him. McNab and the soldier felt thesudden pluck of the rope and saw the light swing across the abyss. Then thefury of the waterspout burst with a triumphant scream, the tension ceased, thelight was blotted out, and when the column sank, there dangled at the end ofthe lariat nothing but the drenched and blackened skeleton of the she-oakbough. Amid a terrific peal of thunder, the long pent-up rain descended, and asudden ghastly rending asunder of the clouds showed far below them the heavingocean, high above them the jagged and glistening rocks, and at their feet theblack and murderous abyss of the Blowhole—empty.

They pulled up the useless rope in silence; and another dead tree lightedand lowered showed them nothing.

"God rest his puir soul," said McNab, shuddering. "He's out o' our han'snow."

CHAPTER XXV. THE FLIGHT.

Gabbett, guided by the Crow, had determined to beach the captured boat onthe southern point of Cape Surville. It will be seen by those who have followedthe description of the topography of Colonel Arthur's Penitentiary, thatnothing but the desperate nature of the attempt could have justified sodesperate a measure. The perpendicular cliffs seemed to render such an attemptcertain destruction; but Vetch, who had been employed in building the pier atthe Neck, knew that on the southern point of the promontory was a strip ofbeach, upon which the company might, by good fortune, land in safety. Withsomething of the decision of his leader, Rex, the Crow determined at once thatin their desperate plight this was the only measure, and setting his teeth ashe seized the oar that served as a rudder, he put the boat's head straight forthe huge rock that formed the northern horn of Pirates' Bay.

Save for the faint phosphorescent radiance of the foaming waves, thedarkness was intense, and Burgess for some minutes pulled almost at random inpursuit. The same tremendous flash of lightning which had saved the life ofMcNab, by causing Rex to miss his aim, showed to the Commandant the whale-boatbalanced on the summit of an enormous wave, and apparently about to be flungagainst the wall of rock which—magnified in the flash—seemedfrightfully near to them. The next instant Burgess himself—his boatlifted by the swiftly advancing billow—saw a wild waste of raging seasscooped into abysmal troughs, in which the bulk of a leviathan might wallow. Atthe bottom of one of these valleys of water lay the mutineers' boat, looking,with its outspread oars, like some six-legged insect floating in a pool of ink.The great cliff, whose every scar and crag was as distinct as though its hugebulk was but a yard distant, seemed to shoot out from its base towards thestruggling insect, a broad, flat straw, that was a strip of dry land. The nextinstant the rushing water, carrying the six-legged atom with it, creamed upover this strip of beach; the giant crag, amid the thunder-crash which followedupon the lightning, appeared to stoop down over the ocean, and as it stooped,the billow rolled onwards, the boat glided down into the depths, and the wholephantasmagoria was swallowed up in the tumultuous darkness of the tempest.

Burgess—his hair bristling with terror—shouted to put the boatabout, but he might with as much reason have shouted at an avalanche. The windblew his voice away, and emptied it violently into the air. A snarling billowjerked the oar from his hand. Despite the desperate efforts of the soldiers,the boat was whirled up the mountain of water like a leaf on a water-spout, anda second flash of lightning showed them what seemed a group of dolls strugglingin the surf, and a walnut-shell bottom upwards was driven by the recoil of thewaves towards them. For an instant all thought that they must share the fatewhich had overtaken the unlucky convicts; but Burgess succeeded in trimming theboat, and, awed by the peril he had so narrowly escaped, gave the order toreturn. As the men set the boat's head to the welcome line of lights thatmarked the Neck, a black spot balanced upon a black line was swept under theirstern and carried out to sea. As it passed them, this black spot emitted a cry,and they knew that it was one of the shattered boat's crew clinging to anoar.

"He was the only one of 'em alive," said Burgess, bandaging his sprainedwrist two hours afterwards at the Neck, "and he's food for the fishes by thistime!"

He was mistaken, however. Fate had in reserve for the crew of villains aless merciful death than that of drowning. Aided by the lightning, and thatwonderful "good luck" which urges villainy to its destruction, Vetch beachedthe boat, and the party, bruised and bleeding, reached the upper portion of theshore in safety. Of all this number only Cox was lost. He was pullingstroke-oar, and, being something of a laggard, stood in the way of the Crow,who, seeing the importance of haste in preserving his own skin, plucked the manbackwards by the collar, and passed over his sprawling body to the shore. Cox,grasping at anything to save himself, clutched an oar, and the next momentfound himself borne out with the overturned whale-boat by the under-tow. He wasdrifted past his only hope of rescue—the guard-boat—with a velocitythat forbade all attempts at rescue, and almost before the poor scoundrel hadtime to realize his condition, he was in the best possible way of escaping thehanging that his comrades had so often humorously prophesied for him. Being astrong and vigorous villain, however, he clung tenaciously to his oar, and evenunbuckling his leather belt, passed it round the slip of wood that was hissalvation, girding himself to it as firmly as he was able. In this condition,plus a swoon from exhaustion, he was descried by the helmsman of the PrettyMary, a few miles from Cape Surville, at daylight next morning. Blunt, with awild hope that this waif and stray might be the lover of Sarah Purfoy, dead,lowered a boat and picked him up. Nearly bisected by the belt, gorged with saltwater, frozen with cold, and having two ribs broken, the victim of Vetch'smurderous quickness retained sufficient life to survive Blunt's remedies fornearly two hours. During that time he stated that his name was Cox, that he hadescaped from Port Arthur with eight others, that John Rex was the leader of theexpedition, that the others were all drowned, and that he believed John Rex hadbeen retaken. Having placed Blunt in possession of these particulars, hefurther said that it pricked him to breathe, cursed Jemmy Vetch, thesettlement, and the sea, and so impenitently died. Blunt smoked three pipes,and then altered the course of the Pretty Mary two points to the eastward, andran for the coast. It was possible that the man for whom he was searching hadnot been retaken, and was even now awaiting his arrival. It was clearly hisduty—hearing of the planned escape having been actuallyattempted—not to give up the expedition while hope remained.

"I'll take one more look along," said he to himself.

The Pretty Mary, hugging the coast as closely as she dared, crawled in thethin breeze all day, and saw nothing. It would be madness to land at CapeSurville, for the whole station would be on the alert; so Blunt, as night wasfalling, stood off a little across the mouth of Pirates' Bay. He was walkingthe deck, groaning at the folly of the expedition, when a strange appearance onthe southern horn of the bay made him come to a sudden halt. There was afurnace blazing in the bowels of the mountain! Blunt rubbed his eyes andstared. He looked at the man at the helm. "Do you see anything yonder,Jem?"

Jem—a Sydney man, who had never been round that coastbefore—briefly remarked, "Lighthouse."

Blunt stumped into the cabin and got out his charts. No lighthouse was laiddown there, only a mark like an anchor, and a note, "Remarkable Hole at thisPoint." A remarkable hole indeed; a remarkable "lime kiln" would have been moreto the purpose!

Blunt called up his mate, William Staples, a fellow whom Sarah Purfoy's goldhad bought body and soul. William Staples looked at the waxing and waning glowfor a while, and then said, in tones trembling with greed, "It's a fire. Lieto, and lower away the jolly-boat. Old man, that's our bird for a thousandpounds!"

The Pretty Mary shortened sail, and Blunt and Staples got into thejolly-boat.

"Goin' a-hoysterin', sir?" said one of the crew, with a grin, as Blunt threwa bundle into the stern-sheets.

Staples thrust his tongue into his cheek. The object of the voyage was nowpretty well understood among the carefully picked crew. Blunt had not chosenmen who were likely to betray him, though, for that matter, Rex had suggested aprecaution which rendered betrayal almost impossible.

"What's in the bundle, old man?" asked Will Staples, after they had gotclear of the ship.

"Clothes," returned Blunt. "We can't bring him off, if it is him, in hiscanaries. He puts on these duds, d'ye see, sinks Her Majesty's livery, andcomes aboard, a 'shipwrecked mariner'."

"That's well thought of. Whose notion's that? The Madam's, I'll bebound."

"Ay."

"She's a knowing one."

And the sinister laughter of the pair floated across the violet water.

"Go easy, man," said Blunt, as they neared the shore. "They're all awake atEaglehawk; and if those cursed dogs give tongue there'll be a boat out in atwinkling. It's lucky the wind's off shore."

Staples lay on his oar and listened. The night was moonless, and the shiphad already disappeared from view. They were approaching the promontory fromthe south-east, and this isthmus of the guarded Neck was hidden by the outlyingcliff. In the south-western angle of this cliff, about midway between thesummit and the sea, was an arch, which vomited a red and flickering light, thatfaintly shone upon the sea in the track of the boat. The light was lambent anduncertain, now sinking almost into insignificance, and now leaping up with afierceness that caused a deep glow to throb in the very heart of the mountain.Sometimes a black figure would pass across this gigantic furnace-mouth,stooping and rising, as though feeding the fire. One might have imagined that adoor in Vulcan's Smithy had been left inadvertently open, and that the old herowas forging arms for a demigod.

Blunt turned pale. "It's no mortal," he whispered. "Let's go back."

"And what will Madam say?" returned dare-devil Will Staples who would haveplunged into Mount Erebus had he been paid for it. Thus appealed to in the nameof his ruling passion, Blunt turned his head, and the boat sped onward.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE WORK OF THE SEA.

The lift of the water-spout had saved John Rex's life. At the moment when itstruck him he was on his hands and knees at the entrance of the cavern. Thewave, gushing upwards, at the same time expanded, laterally, and this lateralforce drove the convict into the mouth of the subterranean passage. The passagetrended downwards, and for some seconds he was rolled over and over, the rushof water wedging him at length into a crevice between two enormous stones,which overhung a still more formidable abyss. Fortunately for the preservationof his hard-fought-for life, this very fury of incoming water prevented himfrom being washed out again with the recoil of the wave. He could hear thewater dashing with frightful echoes far down into the depths beyond him, but itwas evident that the two stones against which he had been thrust acted asbreakwaters to the torrent poured in from the outside, and repelled the mainbody of the stream in the fashion he had observed from his position on theledge. In a few seconds the cavern was empty.

Painfully extricating himself, and feeling as yet doubtful of his safety,John Rex essayed to climb the twin-blocks that barred the unknown depths belowhim. The first movement he made caused him to shriek aloud. His leftarm—with which he clung to the rope—hung powerless. Ground againstthe ragged entrance, it was momentarily paralysed. For an instant theunfortunate wretch sank despairingly on the wet and rugged floor of the cave;then a terrible gurgling beneath his feet warned him of the approachingtorrent, and, collecting all his energies, he scrambled up the incline. Thoughnigh fainting with pain and exhaustion, he pressed desperately higher andhigher. He heard the hideous shriek of the whirlpool which was beneath him growlouder and louder. He saw the darkness grow darker as the rising water-spoutcovered the mouth of the cave. He felt the salt spray sting his face, and thewrathful tide lick the hand that hung over the shelf on which he fell. But thatwas all. He was out of danger at last! And as the thought blessed his senses,his eyes closed, and the wonderful courage and strength which had sustained thevillain so long exhaled in stupor.

When he awoke the cavern was filled with the soft light of dawn. Raising hiseyes, he beheld, high above his head, a roof of rock, on which the reflectionof the sunbeams, playing upwards through a pool of water, cast flickeringcolours. On his right hand was the mouth of the cave, on his left a terrificabyss, at the bottom of which he could hear the sea faintly lapping andwashing. He raised himself and stretched his stiffened limbs. Despite hisinjured shoulder, it was imperative that he should bestir himself. He knew notif his escape had been noticed, or if the cavern had another inlet, by whichMcNab, returning, might penetrate. Moreover, he was wet and famished. Topreserve the life which he had torn from the sea, he must have fire and food.First he examined the crevice by which he had entered. It was shaped like anirregular triangle, hollowed at the base by the action of the water which insuch storms as that of the preceding night was forced into it by the rising ofthe sea. John Rex dared not crawl too near the edge, lest he should slide outof the damp and slippery orifice, and be dashed upon the rocks at the bottom ofthe Blow-hole. Craning his neck, he could see, a hundred feet below him, thesullenly frothing water, gurgling, spouting, and creaming, in huge turbideddies, occasionally leaping upwards as though it longed for another storm tosend it raging up to the man who had escaped its fury. It was impossible to getdown that way. He turned back into the cavern, and began to explore in thatdirection. The twin-rocks against which he had been hurled were, in fact,pillars which supported the roof of the water-drive. Beyond them lay a greatgrey shadow which was emptiness, faintly illumined by the sea-light cast upthrough the bottom of the gulf. Midway across the grey shadow fell a strangebeam of dusky brilliance, which cast its flickering light upon a wilderness ofwaving sea-weeds. Even in the desperate position in which he found himself,there survived in the vagabond's nature sufficient poetry to make him value thenatural marvel upon which he had so strangely stumbled. The immense promontory,which, viewed from the outside, seemed as solid as a mountain, was in realitybut a hollow cone, reft and split into a thousand fissures by the unsuspectedaction of the sea for centuries. The Blow-hole was but an insignificant crannycompared with this enormous chasm. Descending with difficulty the steepincline, he found himself on the brink of a gallery of rock, which, jutting outover the pool, bore on its moist and weed-bearded edges signs of frequentsubmersion. It must be low tide without the rock. Clinging to the rough androot-like algae that fringed the ever-moist walls, John Rex crept round theprojection of the gallery, and passed at once from dimness to daylight. Therewas a broad loop-hole in the side of the honey-combed and wave-perforatedcliff. The cloudless heaven expanded above him; a fresh breeze kissed his cheekand, sixty feet below him, the sea wrinkled all its lazy length, sparkling inmyriad wavelets beneath the bright beams of morning. Not a sign of the recenttempest marred the exquisite harmony of the picture. Not a sign of human lifegave evidence of the grim neighbourhood of the prison. From the recess out ofwhich he peered nothing was visible but a sky of turquoise smiling upon a seaof sapphire.

The placidity of Nature was, however, to the hunted convict a new source ofalarm. It was a reason why the Blow-hole and its neighbourhood should bethoroughly searched. He guessed that the favourable weather would be anadditional inducement to McNab and Burgess to satisfy themselves as to the fateof their late prisoner. He turned from the opening, and prepared to descendstill farther into the rock pathway. The sunshine had revived and cheered him,and a sort of instinct told him that the cliff, so honey-combed above, couldnot be without some gully or chink at its base, which at low tide would giveupon the rocky shore. It grew darker as he descended, and twice he almostturned back in dread of the gulfs on either side of him. It seemed to him,also, that the gullet of weed-clad rock through which he was crawling doubledupon itself, and led only into the bowels of the mountain. Gnawed by hunger,and conscious that in a few hours at most the rising tide would fill thesubterranean passage and cut off his retreat, he pushed desperately onwards. Hehad descended some ninety feet, and had lost, in the devious windings of hisdownward path, all but the reflection of the light from the gallery, when hewas rewarded by a glimpse of sunshine striking upwards. He parted two enormousmasses of seaweed, whose bubble-headed fronds hung curtainwise across his path,and found himself in the very middle of the narrow cleft of rock through whichthe sea was driven to the Blow-hole.

At an immense distance above him was the arch of cliff. Beyond that archappeared a segment of the ragged edge of the circular opening, down which hehad fallen. He looked in vain for the funnel-mouth whose friendly shelter hadreceived him. It was now indistinguishable. At his feet was a long rift in thesolid rock, so narrow that he could almost have leapt across it. This rift wasthe channel of a swift black current which ran from the sea for fifty yardsunder an arch eight feet high, until it broke upon the jagged rocks that layblistering in the sunshine at the bottom of the circular opening in the uppercliff. A shudder shook the limbs of the adventurous convict. He comprehendedthat at high tide the place where he stood was under water, and that the narrowcavern became a subaqueous pipe of solid rock forty feet long, through whichwere spouted the league-long rollers of the Southern Sea.

The narrow strip of rock at the base of the cliff was as flat as a table.Here and there were enormous hollows like pans, which the retreating tide hadleft full of clear, still water. The crannies of the rock were inhabited bysmall white crabs, and John Rex found to his delight that there was on thislittle shelf abundance of mussels, which, though lean and acrid, weresufficiently grateful to his famished stomach. Attached to the flat surfaces ofthe numerous stones, moreover, were coarse limpets. These, however, John Rexfound too salt to be palatable, and was compelled to reject them. A largervariety, however, having a succulent body as thick as a man's thumb, containedin long razor-shaped shells, were in some degree free from this objection, andhe soon collected the materials for a meal. Having eaten and sunned himself, hebegan to examine the enormous rock, to the base of which he had so strangelypenetrated. Rugged and worn, it raised its huge breast against wind and wave,secure upon a broad pedestal, which probably extended as far beneath the sea asthe massive column itself rose above it. Rising thus, with its shaggy draperyof seaweed clinging about its knees, it seemed to be a motionless but sentientbeing—some monster of the deep, a Titan of the ocean condemned ever tofront in silence the fury of that illimitable and rarely-travelled sea.Yet—silent and motionless as he was—the hoary ancient gave hint ofthe mysteries of his revenge. Standing upon the broad and sea-girt platformwhere surely no human foot but his had ever stood in life, the convict saw,many feet above him, pitched into a cavity of the huge sun-blistered boulders,an object which his sailor eye told him at once was part of the top hamper ofsome large ship. Crusted with shells, and its ruin so overrun with the ivy ofthe ocean that its ropes could barely be distinguished from the weeds withwhich they were encumbered, this relic of human labour attested the triumph ofnature over human ingenuity. Perforated below by the relentless sea, exposedabove to the full fury of the tempest; set in solitary defiance to the waves,that rolling from the ice-volcano of the Southern Pole, hurled their gatheredmight unchecked upon its iron front, the great rock drew from its lonelywarfare the materials of its own silent vengeance. Clasped in iron arms, itheld its prey, snatched from the jaws of the all-devouring sea. One mightimagine that, when the doomed ship, with her crew of shrieking souls, hadsplintered and gone down, the deaf, blind giant had clutched this fragment,upheaved from the seething waters, with a thrill of savage and terriblejoy.

John Rex, gazing up at this memento of a forgotten agony, felt a sensationof the most vulgar pleasure. "There's wood for my fire!" thought he; andmounting to the spot, he essayed to fling down the splinters of timber upon theplatform. Long exposed to the sun, and flung high above the water-mark ofrecent storms, the timber had dried to the condition of touchwood, and wouldburn fiercely. It was precisely what he required. Strange accident that had foryears stored, upon a desolate rock, this fragment of a vanished andlong-forgotten vessel, that it might aid at last to warm the limbs of a villainescaping from justice!

Striking the disintegrated mass with his iron-shod heel, John Rex broke offconvenient portions; and making a bag of his shirt by tying the sleeves andneck, he was speedily staggering into the cavern with a supply of fuel. He madetwo trips, flinging down the wood on the floor of the gallery that overlookedthe sea, and was returning for a third, when his quick ear caught the dip ofoars. He had barely time to lift the seaweed curtain that veiled the entranceto the chasm, when the Eaglehawk boat rounded the promontory. Burgess was inthe stern-sheets, and seemed to be making signals to someone on the top of thecliff. Rex, grinning behind his veil, divined the manoeuvre. McNab and hisparty were to search above, while the Commandant examined the gulf below. Theboat headed direct for the passage, and for an instant John Rex's undauntedsoul shivered at the thought that, perhaps, after all, his pursuers might beaware of the existence of the cavern. Yet that was unlikely. He kept hisground, and the boat passed within a foot of him, gliding silently into thegulf. He observed that Burgess's usually florid face was pale, and that hisleft sleeve was cut open, showing a bandage on the arm. There had been somefighting, then, and it was not unlikely that all his fellow-desperadoes hadbeen captured! He chuckled at his own ingenuity and good sense. The boat,emerging from the archway, entered the pool of the Blow-hole, and, held withthe full strength of the party, remained stationary. John Rex watched Burgessscan the rocks and eddies, saw him signal to McNab, and then, with much relief,beheld the boat's head brought round to the sea-board.

He was so intent upon watching this dangerous and difficult operation thathe was oblivious of an extraordinary change which had taken place in theinterior of the cavern. The water which, an hour ago, had left exposed a longreef of black hummock-rocks, was now spread in one foam-flecked sheet over theragged bottom of the rude staircase by which he had descended. The tide hadturned, and the sea, apparently sucked in through some deeper tunnel in theportion of the cliff which was below water, was being forced into the vaultwith a rapidity which bid fair to shortly submerge the mouth of the cave. Theconvict's feet were already wetted by the incoming waves, and as he turned forone last look at the boat he saw a green billow heave up against the entranceto the chasm, and, almost blotting out the daylight, roll majestically throughthe arch. It was high time for Burgess to take his departure if he did not wishhis whale-boat to be cracked like a nut against the roof of the tunnel. Aliveto his danger, the Commandant abandoned the search after his late prisoner'scorpse, and he hastened to gain the open sea. The boat, carried backwards andupwards on the bosom of a monstrous wave, narrowly escaped destruction, andJohn Rex, climbing to the gallery, saw with much satisfaction the broad back ofhis out-witted gaoler disappear round the sheltering promontory. The lastefforts of his pursuers had failed, and in another hour the only accessibleentrance to the convict's retreat was hidden under three feet of furiousseawater.

His gaolers were convinced of his death, and would search for him no more.So far, so good. Now for the last desperate venture—the escape from thewonderful cavern which was at once his shelter and his prison. Piling his woodtogether, and succeeding after many efforts, by the aid of a flint and the ringwhich yet clung to his ankle, in lighting a fire, and warming his chilled limbsin its cheering blaze, he set himself to meditate upon his course of action. Hewas safe for the present, and the supply of food that the rock afforded wasamply sufficient to sustain life in him for many days, but it was impossiblethat he could remain for many days concealed. He had no fresh water, andthough, by reason of the soaking he had received, he had hitherto felt littleinconvenience from this cause, the salt and acrid mussels speedily induced araging thirst, which he could not alleviate. It was imperative that withinforty-eight hours at farthest he should be on his way to the peninsula. Heremembered the little stream into which—in his flight of the previousnight—he had so nearly fallen, and hoped to be able, under cover of thedarkness, to steal round the reef and reach it unobserved. His desperate schemewas then to commence. He had to run the gauntlet of the dogs and guards, gainthe peninsula, and await the rescuing vessel. He confessed to himself that thechances were terribly against him. If Gabbett and the others had beenrecaptured—as he devoutly trusted—the coast would be comparativelyclear; but if they had escaped, he knew Burgess too well to think that he wouldgive up the chase while hope of re-taking the absconders remained to him. Ifindeed all fell out as he had wished, he had still to sustain life until Bluntfound him—if haply Blunt had not returned, wearied with useless anddangerous waiting.

As night came on, and the firelight showed strange shadows waving from thecorners of the enormous vault, while the dismal abysses beneath him murmuredand muttered with uncouth and ghastly utterance, there fell upon the lonely manthe terror of Solitude. Was this marvellous hiding-place that he had discoveredto be his sepulchre? Was he—a monster amongst his fellow-men—to diesome monstrous death, entombed in this mysterious and terrible cavern of thesea? He had tried to drive away these gloomy thoughts by sketching out forhimself a plan of action—but in vain. In vain he strove to picture in itscompleteness that—as yet vague—design by which he promised himselfto wrest from the vanished son of the wealthy ship-builder his name andheritage. His mind, filled with forebodings of shadowy horror, could not givethe subject the calm consideration which it needed. In the midst of his schemesfor the baffling of the jealous love of the woman who was to save him, and thegetting to England, in shipwrecked and foreign guise, as the long-lost heir tothe fortune of Sir Richard Devine, there arose ghastly and awesome shapes ofdeath and horror, with whose terrible unsubstantiality he must grapple in thelonely recesses of that dismal cavern. He heaped fresh wood upon his fire, thatthe bright light might drive out the gruesome things that lurked above, below,and around him. He became afraid to look behind him, lest some shapeless massof mid-sea birth—some voracious polype, with far-reaching arms andjellied mouth ever open to devour—might slide up over the edge of thedripping caves below, and fasten upon him in the darkness. Hisimagination—always sufficiently vivid, and spurred to an unnatural effectby the exciting scenes of the previous night—painted each patch ofshadow, clinging bat-like to the humid wall, as some globular sea-spider readyto drop upon him with its viscid and clay-cold body, and drain out his chilledblood, enfolding him in rough and hairy arms. Each splash in the water beneathhim, each sigh of the multitudinous and melancholy sea, seemed to prelude thelaborious advent of some mis-shapen and ungainly abortion of the ooze. All thesensations induced by lapping water and regurgitating waves took material shapeand surrounded him. All creatures that could be engendered by slime and saltcrept forth into the firelight to stare at him. Red dabs and splashes that wereliving beings, having a strange phosphoric light of their own, glowed upon thefloor. The livid encrustations of a hundred years of humidity slipped from offthe walls and painfully heaved their mushroom surfaces to the blaze. The redglow of the unwonted fire, crimsoning the wet sides of the cavern, seemed toattract countless blisterous and transparent shapelessnesses, which elongatedthemselves towards him. Bloodless and bladdery things ran hither and thithernoiselessly. Strange carapaces crawled from out of the rocks. All the horribleunseen life of the ocean seemed to be rising up and surrounding him. Heretreated to the brink of the gulf, and the glare of the upheld brand fell upona rounded hummock, whose coronal of silky weed out-floating in the water lookedlike the head of a drowned man. He rushed to the entrance of the gallery, andhis shadow, thrown into the opening, took the shape of an avenging phantom,with arms upraised to warn him back. The naturalist, the explorer, or theshipwrecked seaman would have found nothing frightful in this exhibition of theharmless life of the Australian ocean. But the convict's guilty conscience,long suppressed and derided, asserted itself in this hour when it was alonewith Nature and Night. The bitter intellectual power which had so longsupported him succumbed beneath imagination—the unconscious religion ofthe soul. If ever he was nigh repentance it was then. Phantoms of his pastcrimes gibbered at him, and covering his eyes with his hands, he fellshuddering upon his knees. The brand, loosening from his grasp, dropped intothe gulf, and was extinguished with a hissing noise. As if the sound had calledup some spirit that lurked below, a whisper ran through the cavern.

"John Rex!" The hair on the convict's flesh stood up, and he cowered to theearth.

"John Rex?"

It was a human voice! Whether of friend or enemy he did not pause to think.His terror over-mastered all other considerations.

"Here! here!" he cried, and sprang to the opening of the vault.

Arrived at the foot of the cliff, Blunt and Staples found themselves inalmost complete darkness, for the light of the mysterious fire, which hadhitherto guided them, had necessarily disappeared. Calm as was the night, andstill as was the ocean, the sea yet ran with silent but dangerous strengththrough the channel which led to the Blow-hole; and Blunt, instinctivelyfeeling the boat drawn towards some unknown peril, held off the shelf of rocksout of reach of the current. A sudden flash of fire, as from a flourishedbrand, burst out above them, and floating downwards through the darkness, inerratic circles, came an atom of burning wood. Surely no one but a hunted manwould lurk in such a savage retreat.

Blunt, in desperate anxiety, determined to risk all upon one venture. "JohnRex!" he shouted up through his rounded hands. The light flashed again at theeye-hole of the mountain, and on the point above them appeared a wild figure,holding in its hands a burning log, whose fierce glow illumined a face socontorted by deadly fear and agony of expectation that it was scarce human.

"Here! here!"

"The poor devil seems half-crazy," said Will Staples, under his breath; andthen aloud, "We're FRIENDS!" A few moments sufficed to explain matters. Theterrors which had oppressed John Rex disappeared in human presence, and thevillain's coolness returned. Kneeling on the rock platform, he held parley.

"It is impossible for me to come down now," he said. "The tide covers theonly way out of the cavern."

"Can't you dive through it?" said Will Staples.

"No, nor you neither," said Rex, shuddering at the thought of trustinghimself to that horrible whirlpool.

"What's to be done? You can't come down that wall." "Wait until morning,"returned Rex coolly. "It will be dead low tide at seven o'clock. You must senda boat at six, or there-abouts. It will be low enough for me to get out, I daresay, by that time."

"But the Guard?"

"Won't come here, my man. They've got their work to do in watching the Neckand exploring after my mates. They won't come here. Besides, I'm dead."

"Dead!"

"Thought to be so, which is as well—better for me, perhaps. If theydon't see your ship, or your boat, you're safe enough."

"I don't like to risk it," said Blunt. "It's Life if we're caught."

"It's Death if I'm caught!" returned the other, with a sinister laugh. "Butthere's no danger if you are cautious. No one looks for rats in a terrier'skennel, and there's not a station along the beach from here to Cape Pillar.Take your vessel out of eye-shot of the Neck, bring the boat up Descent Beach,and the thing's done."

"Well," says Blunt, "I'll try it."

"You wouldn't like to stop here till morning? It is rather lonely,"suggested Rex, absolutely making a jest of his late terrors.

Will Staples laughed. "You're a bold boy!" said he. "We'll come atdaybreak."

"Have you got the clothes as I directed?"

"Yes."

"Then good night. I'll put my fire out, in case somebody else might see it,who wouldn't be as kind as you are."

"Good night."

"Not a word for the Madam," said Staples, when they reached the vessel.

"Not a word, the ungrateful dog," asserted Blunt, adding, with some heat,"That's the way with women. They'll go through fire and water for a man thatdoesn't care a snap of his fingers for 'em; but for any poor fellow who riskshis neck to pleasure 'em they've nothing but sneers! I wish I'd never meddledin the business."

"There are no fools like old fools," thought Will Staples, looking backthrough the darkness at the place where the fire had been, but he did not utterhis thoughts aloud.

At eight o'clock the next morning the Pretty Mary stood out to sea withevery stitch of canvas set, alow and aloft. The skipper's fishing had come toan end. He had caught a shipwrecked seaman, who had been brought on board atdaylight, and was then at breakfast in the cabin. The crew winked at each otherwhen the haggard mariner, attired in garments that seemed remarkably wellpreserved, mounted the side. But they, none of them, were in a position tocontrovert the skipper's statement.

"Where are we bound for?" asked John Rex, smoking Staples's pipe inlingering puffs of delight. "I'm entirely in your hands, Blunt."

"My orders are to cruise about the whaling grounds until I meet my consort,"returned Blunt sullenly, "and put you aboard her. She'll take you back toSydney. I'm victualled for a twelve-months' trip."

"Right!" cried Rex, clapping his preserver on the back. "I'm bound to get toSydney somehow; but, as the Philistines are abroad, I may as well tarry inJericho till my beard be grown. Don't stare at my Scriptural quotation, Mr.Staples," he added, inspirited by creature comforts, and secure amid hispurchased friends. "I assure you that I've had the very best religiousinstruction. Indeed, it is chiefly owing to my worthy spiritual pastor andmaster that I am enabled to smoke this very villainous tobacco of yours at thepresent moment!"

CHAPTER XXVII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

It was not until they had scrambled up the beach to safety that theabsconders became fully aware of the loss of another of their companions. Asthey stood on the break of the beach, wringing the water from their clothes,Gabbett's small eye, counting their number, missed the stroke oar.

"Where's Cox?"

"The fool fell overboard," said Jemmy Vetch shortly. "He never had as muchsense in that skull of his as would keep it sound on his shoulders."

Gabbett scowled. "That's three of us gone," he said, in the tones of a mansuffering some personal injury.

They summed up their means of defence against attack. Sanders and Greenhillhad knives. Gabbett still retained the axe in his belt. Vetch had dropped hismusket at the Neck, and Bodenham and Cornelius were unarmed.

"Let's have a look at the tucker," said Vetch.

There was but one bag of provisions. It contained a piece of salt pork, twoloaves, and some uncooked potatoes. Signal Hill station was not rich inedibles.

"That ain't much," said the Crow, with rueful face. "Is it, Gabbett?"

"It must do, any way," returned the giant carelessly.

The inspection over, the six proceeded up the shore, and encamped under thelee of a rock. Bodenham was for lighting a fire, but Vetch, who, by tacitconsent, had been chosen leader of the expedition, forbade it, saying that thelight might betray them. "They'll think we're drowned, and won't pursue us," hesaid. So all that night the miserable wretches crouched fireless together.

Morning breaks clear and bright, and—free for the first time in tenyears—they comprehend that their terrible journey has begun. "Where arewe to go? How are we to live?" asked Bodenham, scanning the barren bush thatstretches to the barren sea. "Gabbett, you've been out before—how's itdone?"

"We'll make the shepherds' huts, and live on their tucker till we get achange o' clothes," said Gabbett evading the main question. "We can follow thecoast-line."

"Steady, lads," said prudent Vetch; "we must sneak round yon sandhills, andso creep into the scrub. If they've a good glass at the Neck, they can seeus."

"It does seem close," said Bodenham; "I could pitch a stone on to theguard-house. Good-bye, you Bloody Spot!" he adds, with sudden rage, shaking hisfist vindictively at the Penitentiary; "I don't want to see you no more tillthe Day o' Judgment."

Vetch divides the provisions, and they travel all that day until dark night.The scrub is prickly and dense. Their clothes are torn, their hands and feetbleeding. Already they feel out-wearied. No one pursuing, they light a fire,and sleep. The second day they come to a sandy spit that runs out into the sea,and find that they have got too far to the eastward, and must follow the shoreline to East Bay Neck. Back through the scrub they drag their heavy feet. Thatnight they eat the last crumb of the loaf. The third day at highnoon—after some toilsome walking—they reach a big hill, now calledCollins' Mount, and see the upper link of the earring, the isthmus of East BayNeck, at their feet. A few rocks are on their right hand, and blue in thelovely distance lies hated Maria Island. "We must keep well to the eastward,"said Greenhill, "or we shall fall in with the settlers and get taken." So,passing the isthmus, they strike into the bush along the shore, and tighteningtheir belts over their gnawing bellies, camp under some low-lying hills.

The fourth day is notable for the indisposition of Bodenham, who is a badwalker, and, falling behind, delays the party by frequent cooees. Gabbettthreatens him with a worse fate than sore feet if he lingers. Luckily, thatevening Greenhill espies a hut, but, not trusting to the friendship of theoccupant, they wait until he quits it in the morning, and then send Vetch toforage. Vetch, secretly congratulating himself on having by his counselprevented violence, returns bending under half a bag of flour. "You'd bettercarry the flour," said he to Gabbett, "and give me the axe." Gabbett eyes himfor a while, as if struck by his puny form, but finally gives the axe to hismate Sanders. That day they creep along cautiously between the sea and thehills, camping at a creek. Vetch, after much search, finds a handful ofberries, and adds them to the main stock. Half of this handful is eaten atonce, the other half reserved for "to-morrow". The next day they come to an armof the sea, and as they struggle northward, Maria Island disappears, and withit all danger from telescopes. That evening they reach the camping ground bytwos and threes; and each wonders between the paroxysms of hunger if his faceis as haggard, and his eyes as bloodshot, as those of his neighbour.

On the seventh day, Bodenham says his feet are so bad he can't walk, andGreenhill, with a greedy look at the berries, bids him stay behind. Being in avery weak condition, he takes his companion at his word, and drops off aboutnoon the next day. Gabbett, discovering this defection, however, goes back, andin an hour or so appears, driving the wretched creature before him with blows,as a sheep is driven to the shambles. Greenhill remonstrates at another mouthbeing thus forced upon the party, but the giant silences him with a hideousglance. Jemmy Vetch remembers that Greenhill accompanied Gabbett once before,and feels uncomfortable. He gives hint of his suspicions to Sanders, butSanders only laughs. It is horribly evident that there is an understandingamong the three.

The ninth sun of their freedom, rising upon sandy and barren hillocks,bristling thick with cruel scrub, sees the six famine-stricken wretches cursingtheir God, and yet afraid to die. All around is the fruitless, shadeless,shelterless bush. Above, the pitiless heaven. In the distance, the remorselesssea. Something terrible must happen. That grey wilderness, arched by greyheaven stooping to grey sea, is a fitting keeper of hideous secrets. Vetchsuggests that Oyster Bay cannot be far to the eastward—the line of oceanis deceitfully close—and though such a proceeding will take them out oftheir course, they resolve to make for it. After hobbling five miles, they seemno nearer than before, and, nigh dead with fatigue and starvation, sinkdespairingly upon the ground. Vetch thinks Gabbett's eyes have a wolfish glarein them, and instinctively draws off from him. Said Greenhill, in the course ofa dismal conversation, "I am so weak that I could eat a piece of a man."

On the tenth day Bodenham refuses to stir, and the others, being scarce ableto drag along their limbs, sit on the ground about him. Greenhill, eyeing theprostrate man, said slowly, "I have seen the same done before, boys, and ittasted like pork."

Vetch, hearing his savage comrade give utterance to a thought all hadsecretly cherished, speaks out, crying, "It would be murder to do it, and then,perhaps we couldn't eat it."

"Oh," said Gabbett, with a grin, "I'll warrant you that, but you must allhave a hand in it."

Gabbett, Sanders and Greenhill then go aside, and presently Sanders, comingto the Crow, said, "He consented to act as flogger. He deserves it."

"So did Gabbett, for that matter," shudders Vetch.

"Ay, but Bodenham's feet are sore," said Sanders, "and 'tis a pity to leavehim."

Having no fire, they make a little breakwind; and Vetch, half-dozing behindthis at about three in the morning, hears someone cry out "Christ!" and awakes,sweating ice.

No one but Gabbett and Greenhill would eat that night. That savage pair,however, make a fire, fling ghastly fragments on the embers, and eat the broilbefore it is right warm. In the morning the frightful carcase is divided. Thatday's march takes place in silence, and at midday halt Cornelius volunteers tocarry the billy, affecting great restoration from the food. Vetch gives it tohim, and in half an hour afterwards Cornelius is missing. Gabbett and Greenhillpursue him in vain, and return with curses. "He'll die like a dog," saidGreenhill, "alone in the bush." Jemmy Vetch, with his intellect acute as ever,thinks that Cornelius may prefer such a death, but says nothing.

The twelfth morning dawns wet and misty, but Vetch, seeing the provisionrunning short, strives to be cheerful, telling stories of men who have escapedgreater peril. Vetch feels with dismay that he is the weakest of the party, buthas some sort of ludicro-horrible consolation in remembering that he is alsothe leanest. They come to a creek that afternoon, and look, until nightfall, invain for a crossing-place. The next day Gabbett and Vetch swim across, andVetch directs Gabbett to cut a long sapling, which, being stretched across thewater, is seized by Greenhill and the Moocher, who are dragged over.

"What would you do without me?" said the Crow with a ghastly grin.

They cannot kindle a fire, for Greenhill, who carries the tinder, hasallowed it to get wet. The giant swings his axe in savage anger at enforcedcold, and Vetch takes an opportunity to remark privately to him what a big manGreenhill is.

On the fourteenth day they can scarcely crawl, and their limbs pain them.Greenhill, who is the weakest, sees Gabbett and the Moocher go aside toconsult, and crawling to the Crow, whimpers: "For God's sake, Jemmy, don't let'em murder me!"

"I can't help you," says Vetch, looking about in terror. "Think of poor TomBodenham."

"But he was no murderer. If they kill me, I shall go to hell with Tom'sblood on my soul." He writhes on the ground in sickening terror, and Gabbettarriving, bids Vetch bring wood for the fire. Vetch, going, sees Greenhillclinging to wolfish Gabbett's knees, and Sanders calls after him, "You willhear it presently, Jem."

The nervous Crow puts his hand to his ears, but is conscious of a dull crashand a groan. When he comes back, Gabbett is putting on the dead man's shoes,which are better than his own.

"We'll stop here a day or so and rest," said he, "now we've gotprovisions."

Two more days pass, and the three, eyeing each other suspiciously, resumetheir march. The third day—the sixteenth of their awfuljourney—such portions of the carcase as they have with them prove unfitto eat. They look into each other's famine-sharpened faces, and wonder "who'snext?"

"We must all die together," said Sanders quickly, "before anything else musthappen."

Vetch marks the terror concealed in the words, and when the dreaded giant isout of earshot, says, "For God's sake, let's go on alone, Alick. You see whatsort of a cove that Gabbett is—he'd kill his father before he'd fast oneday."

They made for the bush, but the giant turned and strode towards them. Vetchskipped nimbly on one side, but Gabbett struck the Moocher on the forehead withthe axe. "Help! Jem, help!" cried the victim, cut, but not fatally, and in thestrength of his desperation tore the axe from the monster who bore it, andflung it to Vetch. "Keep it, Jemmy," he cried; "let's have no more murderdone!"

They fare again through the horrible bush until nightfall, when Vetch, in astrange voice, called the giant to him.

"He must die."

"Either you or he," laughs Gabbett. "Give me the axe."

"No, no," said the Crow, his thin, malignant face distorted by a horribleresolution. "I'll keep the axe. Stand back! You shall hold him, and I'll do thejob."

Sanders, seeing them approach, knew his end was come, and submitted, crying,"Give me half an hour to pray for myself." They consent, and the bewilderedwretch knelt down and folded his hands like a child. His big, stupid faceworked with emotion. His great cracked lips moved in desperate agony. He waggedhis head from side to side, in pitiful confusion of his brutalized senses. "Ican't think o' the words, Jem!"

"Pah," snarled the cripple, swinging the axe, "we can't starve here allnight."

Four days had passed, and the two survivors of this awful journey satwatching each other. The gaunt giant, his eyes gleaming with hate and hunger,sat sentinel over the dwarf. The dwarf, chuckling at his superior sagacity,clutched the fatal axe. For two days they had not spoken to each other. For twodays each had promised himself that on the next his companion mustsleep—and die. Vetch comprehended the devilish scheme of the monster whohad entrapped five of his fellow-beings to aid him by their deaths to his ownsafety, and held aloof. Gabbett watched to snatch the weapon from hiscompanion, and make the odds even once and for ever. In the day-time theytravelled on, seeking each a pretext to creep behind the other. In thenight-time when they feigned slumber, each stealthily raising a head caught thewakeful glance of his companion. Vetch felt his strength deserting him, and hisbrain overpowered by fatigue. Surely the giant, muttering, gesticulating, andslavering at the mouth, was on the road to madness. Would the monster findopportunity to rush at him, and, braving the blood-stained axe, kill him bymain force? or would he sleep, and be himself a victim? Unhappy Vetch! It isthe terrible privilege of insanity to be sleepless.

On the fifth day, Vetch, creeping behind a tree, takes off his belt, andmakes a noose. He will hang himself. He gets one end of the belt over a bough,and then his cowardice bids him pause. Gabbett approaches; he tries to evadehim, and steal away into the bush. In vain. The insatiable giant, ravenous withfamine, and sustained by madness, is not to be shaken off. Vetch tries to run,but his legs bend under him. The axe that has tried to drink so much bloodfeels heavy as lead. He will fling it away. No—he dares not. Night fallsagain. He must rest, or go mad. His limbs are powerless. His eyelids are gluedtogether. He sleeps as he stands. This horrible thing must be a dream. He is atPort Arthur, or will wake on his pallet in the penny lodging-house he slept atwhen a boy. Is that the Deputy come to wake him to the torment of living? It isnot time—surely not time yet. He sleeps—and the giant, grinningwith ferocious joy, approaches on clumsy tiptoe and seizes the coveted axe.

On the north coast of Van Diemen's Land is a place called St Helen's Point,and a certain skipper, being in want of fresh water; landing there with aboat's crew, found on the banks of the creek a gaunt and blood-stained man,clad in tattered yellow, who carried on his back an axe and a bundle. When thesailors came within sight of him, he made signs to them to approach, and,opening his bundle with much ceremony, offered them some of its contents.Filled with horror at what the maniac displayed, they seized and bound him. AtHobart Town he was recognized as the only survivor of the nine desperadoes whohad escaped from Colonel Arthur's "Natural Penitentiary".

END OF BOOK THREE

BOOK IV.—NORFOLK ISLAND. 1846.

CHAPTER I. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

Bathurst, February 11th, 1846.

In turning over the pages of my journal, to note the good fortune that hasjust happened to me, I am struck by the utter desolation of my life for thelast seven years.

Can it be possible that I, James North, the college-hero, the poet, theprizeman, the Heaven knows what else, have been content to live on at thisdreary spot—an animal, eating and drinking, for tomorrow I die? Yet ithas been so. My world, that world of which I once dreamt so much, hasbeen—here. My fame—which was to reach the ends of theearth—has penetrated to the neighbouring stations. I am considered a"good preacher" by my sheep-feeding friends. It is kind of them.

Yet, on the eve of leaving it, I confess that this solitary life has notbeen without its charms. I have had my books and my thoughts—though attimes the latter were but grim companions. I have striven with my familiar sin,and have not always been worsted. Melancholy reflection. "Not always!" "Butyet" is as a gaoler to bring forth some monstrous malefactor. I vowed, however,that I would not cheat myself in this diary of mine, and I will not. Noevasions, no glossings over of my own sins. This journal is my confessor, and Ibare my heart to it.

It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in black and whitethese agonies and secret cravings of which I dare not speak. It is for the samereason, I suppose, that murderers make confession to dogs and cats, that peoplewith something "on their mind" are given to thinking aloud, that the queen ofMidas must needs whisper to the sedges the secret of her husband's infirmity.Outwardly I am a man of God, pious and grave and softly spoken.Inwardly—what? The mean, cowardly, weak sinner that this book knowsme...Imp! I could tear you in pieces!...One of these days I will. In themeantime, I will keep you under lock and key, and you shall hug my secretsclose. No, old friend, with whom I have communed so long, forgive me, forgiveme. You are to me instead of wife or priest.

I tell to your cold blue pages—how much was it I bought you for inParramatta, rascal?—these stories, longings, remorses, which I would faintell to human ear could I find a human being as discreet as thou. It has beensaid that a man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds; the words wouldblister the paper. Yet your sheets are smooth enough, you fat rogue! Ourneighbours of Rome know human nature. A man must confess. One reads of wretcheswho have carried secrets in their bosoms for years, and blurted them forth atlast. I, shut up here without companionship, without sympathy, without letters,cannot lock up my soul, and feed on my own thoughts. They will out, and so Iwhisper them to thee.

What art thou, thou tremendous power Who dost inhabit us without our leave,And art, within ourselves, another self, A master self that loves todomineer?

What? Conscience? That is a word to frighten children. The conscience ofeach man is of his own making. My friend the shark-toothed cannibal whomStaples brought in his whaler to Sydney would have found his consciencereproach him sorely did he refuse to partake of the feasts made sacred by thecustoms of his ancestors. A spark of divinity? The divinity that, according toreceived doctrine; sits apart, enthroned amid sweet music, and leaves poorhumanity to earn its condemnation as it may? I'll have none ofthat—though I preach it. One must soothe the vulgar senses of the people.Priesthood has its "pious frauds". The Master spoke in parables. Wit? The witthat sees how ill-balanced are our actions and our aspirations? The devilishwit born of our own brain, that sneers at us for our own failings? Perhapsmadness? More likely, for there are few men who are not mad one hour of thewaking twelve. If differing from the judgment of the majority of mankind inregard to familiar things be madness, I suppose I am mad—or too wise. Thespeculation draws near to hair-splitting. James North, recall your earlyrecklessness, your ruin, and your redemption; bring your mind back to earth.Circ*mstances have made you what you are, and will shape your destiny for youwithout your interference. That's comfortably settled!

Now supposing—to take another canter on my night-mare—that manis the slave of circ*mstances (a doctrine which I am inclined to believe,though unwilling to confess); what circ*mstance can have brought about thesudden awakening of the powers that be to James North's fitness for duty?

HOBART TOWN, Jan. 12th.

"DEAR NORTH,—I have much pleasure in informing you that you can beappointed Protestant chaplain at Norfolk Island, if you like. It seems thatthey did not get on well with the last man, and when my advice was asked, I atonce recommended you for the office. The pay is small, but you have a house andso on. It is certainly better than Bathurst, and indeed is considered rather aprize in the clerical lottery.

"There is to be an investigation into affairs down there. Poor oldPratt—who went down, as you know, at the earnest solicitation of theGovernment—seems to have become absurdly lenient with the prisoners, andit is reported that the island is in a frightful state. Sir Eardley is lookingout for some disciplinarian to take the place in hand.

"In the meantime, the chaplaincy is vacant, and I thought of you."

I must consider this seeming good fortune further.

February 19th.—I accept. There is work to be done among those unhappymen that may be my purgation. The authorities shall hear me yet—thoughinquiry was stifled at Port Arthur. By the way, a Pharaoh had arisen who knowsnot Joseph. It is evident that the meddlesome parson, who complained of menbeing flogged to death, is forgotten, as the men are! How many ghosts musthaunt the dismal loneliness of that prison shore! Poor Burgess is gone the wayof all flesh. I wonder if his spirit revisits the scenes of its violences? Ihave written "poor" Burgess.

It is strange how we pity a man gone out of this life. Enmity isextinguished when one can but remember injuries. If a man had injured me, thefact of his living at all would be sufficient grounds for me to hate him; if Ihad injured him, I should hate him still more. Is that the reason I hate myselfat times—my greatest enemy, and one whom I have injured beyondforgiveness? There are offences against one's own nature that are not to beforgiven. Isn't it Tacitus who says "the hatred of those most nearly related ismost inveterate"? But—I am taking flight again.

February 27th, 11.30 p.m.—Nine Creeks Station. I do like to beaccurate in names, dates, etc. Accuracy is a virtue. To exercise it, then.Station ninety miles from Bathurst. I should say about 4,000 head of cattle.Luxury without refinement. Plenty to eat, drink, and read. Hostess'sname—Carr. She is a well-preserved creature, about thirty-four years ofa*ge, and a clever woman—not in a poetical sense, but in the widestworldly acceptation of the term. At the same time, I should be sorry to be herhusband. Women have no business with a brain like hers—that is, if theywish to be women and not sexual monsters. Mrs. Carr is not a lady, though shemight have been one. I don't think she is a good woman either. It is possible,indeed, that she has known the factory before now. There is a mystery abouther, for I was informed that she was a Mrs. Purfoy, the widow of a whalingcaptain, and had married one of her assigned servants, who had deserted herfive years ago, as soon as he obtained his freedom. A word or two at dinner setme thinking. She had received some English papers, and, accounting for herpre-occupied manner, grimly said, "I think I have news of my husband." I shouldnot like to be in Carr's shoes if she has news of him! I don't think she wouldsuffer indignity calmly. After all, what business is it of mine? I was beguiledinto taking more wine at dinner than I needed. Confessor, do you hear me? But Iwill not allow myself to be carried away. You grin, you fat Familiar! So may I,but I shall be eaten with remorse tomorrow.

March 3rd.—A place called Jerrilang, where I have a head andheartache. "One that hath let go himself from the hold and stay of reason, andlies open to the mercy of all temptations."

March 20th.—Sydney. At Captain Frere's.—Seventeen days since Ihave opened you, beloved and detested companion of mine. I have more than halfa mind to never open you again! To read you is to recall to myself all I wouldmost willingly forget; yet not to read you would be to forget all that which Ishould for my sins remember.

The last week has made a new man of me. I am no longer morose, despairing,and bitter, but genial, and on good terms with fortune. It is strange thataccident should have induced me to stay a week under the same roof with thatvision of brightness which has haunted me so long. A meeting in the street, anintroduction, an invitation—the thing is done.

The circ*mstances which form our fortunes are certainly curious things. Ihad thought never again to meet the bright young face to which I felt sostrange an attraction—and lo! here it is smiling on me daily. CaptainFrere should be a happy man. Yet there is a skeleton in this house also. Thatyoung wife, by nature so lovable and so mirthful, ought not to have the sadnesson her face that twice to-day has clouded it. He seems a passionate and boorishcreature, this wonderful convict disciplinarian. His convicts—poordevils—are doubtless disciplined enough. Charming little Sylvia, withyour quaint wit and weird beauty, he is not good enough for you—and yetit was a love match.

March 21st.—I have read family prayers every night since I have beenhere—my black coat and white tie gave me the natural pre-eminence in suchmatters—and I feel guilty every time I read. I wonder what the littlelady of the devotional eyes would say if she knew that I am a miserablehypocrite, preaching that which I do not practise, exhorting others to believethose marvels which I do not believe? I am a coward not to throw off thesaintly mask, and appear as a Freethinker. Yet, am I a coward? I urge uponmyself that it is for the glory of God I hold my peace. The scandal of a priestturned infidel would do more harm than the reign of reason would do good.Imagine this trustful woman for instance—she would suffer anguish at thethoughts of such a sin, though another were the sinner. "If anyone offend oneof these little ones it were better for him that a millstone be hanged abouthis neck and that he be cast into the sea." Yet truth is truth, and should bespoken—should it not, malignant monitor, who remindest me how often Ifail to speak it? Surely among all his army of black-coats our worthy Bishopmust have some men like me, who cannot bring their reason to believe in thingscontrary to the experience of mankind and the laws of nature.

March 22nd.—This unromantic Captain Frere had had some romanticincidents in his life, and he is fond of dilating upon them. It seems that inearly life he expected to have been left a large fortune by an uncle who hadquarrelled with his heir. But the uncle dies on the day fixed for the alteringof the will, the son disappears, and is thought to be drowned. The widow,however, steadfastly refuses to believe in any report of the young man's death,and having a life-interest in the property, holds it against all comers. Mypoor host in consequence comes out here on his pay, and, three years ago, justas he is hoping that the death of his aunt may give him opportunity to enforcea claim as next of kin to some portion of the property, the long-lost sonreturns, is recognized by his mother and the trustees, and installed in dueheirship! The other romantic story is connected with Frere's marriage. He toldme after dinner to-night how his wife had been wrecked when a child, and how hehad saved her life, and defended her from the rude hands of an escapedconvict—one of the monsters our monstrous system breeds. "That was how wefell in love," said he, tossing off his wine complacently.

"An auspicious opportunity," said I. To which he nodded. He is notoverburdened with brains, I fancy. Let me see if I can set down some account ofthis lovely place and its people.

A long low white house, surrounded by a blooming garden. Wide windowsopening on a lawn. The ever glorious, ever changing sea beneath. It is evening.I am talking with Mrs. Frere, of theories of social reform, of picturegalleries, of sunsets, and new books. There comes a sound of wheels on thegravel. It is the magistrate returned from his convict-discipline. We hear himcome briskly up the steps, but we go on talking. (I fancy there was a time whenthe lady would have run to meet him.) He enters, coldly kisses his wife, anddisturbs at once the current of our thoughts. "It has been hot to-day. What,still no letter from head-quarters, Mr. North! I saw Mrs. Golightly in town,Sylvia, and she asked for you. There is to be a ball at Government House. Wemust go." Then he departs, and is heard in the distance indistinctly cursingbecause the water is not hot enough, or because Dawkins, his convict servant,has not brushed his trousers sufficiently. We resume our chat, but he returnsall hungry, and bluff, and whisker-brushed. "Dinner. Ha-ha! I'm ready for it.North, take Mrs. Frere." By and by it is, "North, some sherry? Sylvia, the soupis spoilt again. Did you go out to-day? No?" His eyebrows contract here, and Iknow he says inwardly, "Reading some trashy novel, I suppose." However, hegrins, and obligingly relates how the police have captured co*ckatoo Bill, thenoted bushranger.

After dinner the disciplinarian and I converse—of dogs and horses,gameco*cks, convicts, and moving accidents by flood and field. I remember oldcollege feats, and strive to keep pace with him in the relation of athletics.What hypocrites we are!—for all the time I am longing to get to thedrawing-room, and finish my criticism of the new poet, Mr. Tennyson, to Mrs.Frere. Frere does not read Tennyson—nor anybody else. Adjourned to thedrawing-room, we chat—Mrs. Frere and I—until supper. (He eatssupper.) She is a charming companion, and when I talk my best—I can talk,you must admit, O Familiar—her face lightens up with an interest I rarelysee upon it at other times. I feel cooled and soothed by this companionship.The quiet refinement of this house, after bullocks and Bathurst, is like theshadow of a great rock in a weary land.

Mrs. Frere is about five-and-twenty. She is rather beneath the middleheight, with a slight, girlish figure. This girlish appearance is enhanced bythe fact that she has bright fair hair and blue eyes. Upon conversation withher, however, one sees that her face has lost much of the delicate plumpnesswhich it probably owned in youth. She has had one child, born only to die. Hercheeks are thin, and her eyes have a tinge of sadness, which speak of physicalpain or mental grief. This thinness of face makes the eyes appear larger andthe brow broader than they really are. Her hands are white and painfully thin.They must have been plump and pretty once. Her lips are red with perpetualfever.

Captain Frere seems to have absorbed all his wife's vitality. (Who quotesthe story of Lucius Claudius Hermippus, who lived to a great age by beingconstantly breathed on by young girls? I suppose Burton—who quoteseverything.) In proportion as she has lost her vigour and youth, he has gainedstrength and heartiness. Though he is at least forty years of age, he does notlook more than thirty. His face is ruddy, his eyes bright, his voice firm andringing. He must be a man of considerable strength and—I shouldsay—of more than ordinary animal courage and animal appetite. There isnot a nerve in his body which does not twang like a piano wire. In appearance,he is tall, broad, and bluff, with red whiskers and reddish hair slightlytouched with grey. His manner is loud, coarse, and imperious; his talk of dogs,horses, and convicts. What a strangely-mated pair!

March 30th.—A letter from Van Diemen's Land. "There is a row in thepantry," said Frere, with his accustomed slang. It seems that theComptroller-General of Convicts has appointed a Mr. Pounce to go down and makea report on the state of Norfolk Island. I am to go down with him, and shallreceive instructions to that effect from the Comptroller-General. I haveinformed Frere of this, and he has written to Pounce to come and stay on hisway down. There has been nothing but convict discipline talked since. Frere isgreat upon this point, and wearies me with his explanations of convict tricksand wickedness. He is celebrated for his knowledge of such matters. Detestablewisdom! His servants hate him, but they obey him without a murmur. I haveobserved that habitual criminals—like all savage beasts—cowerbefore the man who has once mastered them. I should not be surprised if the VanDiemen's Land Government selected Frere as their "disciplinarian". I hope theywon't and yet I hope they will.

April 4th.—Nothing worth recording until to-day. Eating, drinking, andsleeping. Despite my forty-seven years, I begin to feel almost like the JamesNorth who fought the bargee and took the gold medal. What a drink water is! Thefons Bandusiae splendidior vitreo was better than all the Massic, MasterHorace! I doubt if your celebrated liquor, bottled when Manlius was consul,could compare with it.

But to my notable facts. I have found out to-night two things which surpriseme. One is that the convict who attempted the life of Mrs. Frere is none otherthan the unhappy man whom my fatal weakness caused to be flogged at PortArthur, and whose face comes before me to reproach me even now. The other thatMrs. Carr is an old acquaintance of Frere's. The latter piece of information Iobtained in a curious way. One night, while Mrs. Frere was not there, we weretalking of clever women. I broached my theory, that strong intellect in womenwent far to destroy their womanly nature.

"Desire in man," said I, "should be Volition in women: Reason, Intuition;Reverence, Devotion; Passion, Love. The woman should strike a lower key-note,but a sharper sound. Man has vigour of reason, woman quickness of feeling. Thewoman who possesses masculine force of intellect is abnormal." He did not halfcomprehend me, I could see, but he agreed with the broad view of the case. "Ionly knew one woman who was really 'strong-minded', as they call it," he said,"and she was a regular bad one."

"It does not follow that she should be bad," said I. "This one was,though—stock, lock, and barrel. But as sharp as a needle, sir, and asimmovable as a rock. A fine woman, too." I saw by the expression of the man'sface that he owned ugly memories, and pressed him further. "She's up countrysomewhere," he said. "Married her assigned servant, I was told, a fellow namedCarr. I haven't seen her for years, and don't know what she may be like now,but in the days when I knew her she was just what you describe." (Let it benoted that I had described nothing.) "She came out in the ship with me as maidto my wife's mother."

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I had met her, but I don't knowwhat induced me to be silent. There are passages in the lives of men of CaptainFrere's complexion, which don't bear descanting on. I expect there have been inthis case, for he changed the subject abruptly, as his wife came in. Is itpossible that these two creatures—the notable disciplinarian and the wifeof the assigned servant—could have been more than friends in youth? Quitepossible. He is the sort of man for gross amours. (A pretty way I am abusing myhost!) And the supple woman with the dark eyes would have been just thecreature to enthral him. Perhaps some such story as this may account in partfor Mrs. Frere's sad looks. Why do I speculate on such things? I seem to doviolence to myself and to insult her by writing such suspicions. If I was aFlagellant now, I would don hairshirt and up flail. "For this sort cometh notout but by prayer and fasting."

April 7th.—Mr. Pounce has arrived—full of the importance of hismission. He walks with the air of a minister of state on the eve of a vacantgarter, hoping, wondering, fearing, and dignified even in his dubitancy. I amas flippant as a school-girl concerning this fatuous official, andyet—Heaven knows—I feel deeply enough the importance of the task hehas before him. One relieves one's brain by these whirlings of one's mentallimbs. I remember that a prisoner at Hobart Town, twice condemned and twicereprieved, jumped and shouted with frenzied vehemence when he heard hissentence of death was finally pronounced. He told me, if he had not so shouted,he believed he would have gone mad.

April 10th.—We had a state dinner last night. The conversation wasabout nothing in the world but convicts. I never saw Mrs. Frere to lessadvantage. Silent, distraite, and sad. She told me after dinner that shedisliked the very name of "convict" from early associations. "I have livedamong them all my life," she said, "but that does not make it the better forme. I have terrible fancies at times, Mr. North, that seem half-memories. Idread to be brought in contact with prisoners again. I am sure that some evilawaits me at their hands."

I laughed, of course, but it would not do. She holds to her own opinion, andlooks at me with horror in her eyes. This terror in her face is perplexing.

"You are nervous," I said. "You want rest."

"I am nervous," she replied, with that candour of voice and manner I havebefore remarked in her, "and I have presentiments of evil."

We sat silent for a while, and then she suddenly turned her large eyes onme, and said calmly, "Mr. North, what death shall I die?" The question was anecho of my own thoughts—I have some foolish (?) fancies as tophysiognomy—and it made me start. What death, indeed? What sort of deathwould one meet with widely-opened eyes, parted lips, and brows bent as thoughto rally fast-flying courage? Not a peaceful death surely. I brought my blackcoat to my aid. "My dear lady, you must not think of such things. Death is buta sleep, you know. Why anticipate a nightmare?"

She sighed, slowly awaking as though from some momentary trance. Checkingherself on the verge of tears, she rallied, turned the conversation, andfinding an excuse for going to the piano, dashed into a waltz. This unnaturalgaiety ended, I fancy, in an hysterical fit. I heard her husband afterwardsrecommending sal volatile. He is the sort of man who would recommend salvolatile to the Pythoness if she consulted him.

April 26th.—All has been arranged, and we start to-morrow. Mr. Pounceis in a condition of painful dignity. He seems afraid to move lest motionshould thaw his official ice. Having found out that I am the "chaplain", he hasrefrained from familiarity. My self-love is wounded, but my patience relieved.Query: Would not the majority of mankind rather be bored by people in authoritythan not noticed by them? James North declines to answer for his part. I havemade my farewells to my friends, and on looking back on the pleasant hours Ihave spent, felt saddened. It is not likely that I shall have many suchpleasant hours. I feel like a vagabond who, having been allowed to sit by acheerful fireside for a while, is turned out into the wet and windy streets,and finds them colder than ever. What were the lines I wrote in her album?

"As some poor tavern-haunter drenched in wine With staggering footstepsthrough the streets returning, Seeing through blinding rain a beacon shine Fromhousehold lamp in happy window burning,—

"Pauses an instant at the reddened pane To gaze on that sweet scene of loveand duty, Then turns into the wild wet night again, Lest his sad presence marits homely beauty."

Yes, those were the lines. With more of truth in them than she expected; andyet what business have I sentimentalizing. My socius thinks "what a puling foolthis North is!"

So, that's over! Now for Norfolk Island and my purgation.

CHAPTER II. THE LOST HEIR.

The lost son of Sir Richard Devine had returned to England, and made claimto his name and fortune. In other words, John Rex had successfully carried outthe scheme by which he had usurped the rights of his old convict-comrade.

Smoking his cigar in his bachelor lodgings, or pausing in a calculationconcerning a race, John Rex often wondered at the strange ease with which hehad carried out so monstrous and seemingly difficult an imposture. After he waslanded in Sydney, by the vessel which Sarah Purfoy had sent to save him, hefound himself a slave to a bondage scarcely less galling than that from whichhe had escaped—the bondage of enforced companionship with an unlovedwoman. The opportune death of one of her assigned servants enabled Sarah Purfoyto instal the escaped convict in his room. In the strange state of societywhich prevailed of necessity in New South Wales at that period, it was notunusual for assigned servants to marry among the free settlers, and when it washeard that Mrs. Purfoy, the widow of a whaling captain, had married John Carr,her storekeeper, transported for embezzlement, and with two years of hissentence yet to run, no one expressed surprise. Indeed, when the year after,John Carr blossomed into an "expiree", master of a fine wife and a finefortune, there were many about him who would have made his existence inAustralia pleasant enough. But John Rex had no notion of remaining longer thanhe could help, and ceaselessly sought means of escape from this secondprison-house. For a long time his search was unsuccessful. Much as she lovedthe scoundrel, Sarah Purfoy did not scruple to tell him that she had bought himand regarded him as her property. He knew that if he made any attempt to escapefrom his marriage-bonds, the woman who had risked so much to save him would nothesitate to deliver him over to the authorities, and state how the opportunedeath of John Carr had enabled her to give name and employment to John Rex, theabsconder. He had thought once that the fact of her being his wife wouldprevent her from giving evidence against him, and that he could thus defy her.But she reminded him that a word to Blunt would be all sufficient.

"I know you don't care for me now, John," she said, with grim complacency;"but your life is in my hands, and if you desert me I will bring you to thegallows."

In vain, in his secret eagerness to be rid of her, he raged and chafed. Hewas tied hand and foot. She held his money, and her shrewd wit had more thandoubled it. She was all-powerful, and he could but wait until her death or somelucky accident should rid him of her, and leave him free to follow out thescheme he had matured. "Once rid of her," he thought, in his solitary ridesover the station of which he was the nominal owner, "the rest is easy. I shallreturn to England with a plausible story of shipwreck, and shall doubtless bereceived with open arms by the dear mother from whom I have been so longparted. Richard Devine shall have his own again."

To be rid of her was not so easy. Twice he tried to escape from histhraldom, and was twice brought back. "I have bought you, John," his partnerhad laughed, "and you don't get away from me. Surely you can be content withthese comforts. You were content with less once. I am not so ugly andrepulsive, am I?"

"I am home-sick," John Carr retorted. "Let us go to England, Sarah."

She tapped her strong white fingers sharply on the table. "Go to England?No, no. That is what you would like to do. You would be master there. You wouldtake my money, and leave me to starve. I know you, Jack. We stop here, dear.Here, where I can hand you over to the first trooper as an escaped convict ifyou are not kind to me."

"She-devil!"

"Oh, I don't mind your abuse. Abuse me if you like, Jack. Beat me if youwill, but don't leave me, or it will be worse for you."

"You are a strange woman!" he cried, in sudden petulant admiration.

"To love such a villain? I don't know that. I love you because you are avillain. A better man would be wearisome to such as I am."

"I wish to Heaven I'd never left Port Arthur. Better there than this dog'slife."

"Go back, then. You have only to say the word!" And so they would wrangle,she glorying in her power over the man who had so long triumphed over her, andhe consoling himself with the hope that the day was not far distant whichshould bring him at once freedom and fortune. One day the chance came to him.His wife was ill, and the ungrateful scoundrel stole five hundred pounds, andtaking two horses reached Sydney, and obtained passage in a vessel bound forRio.

Having escaped thraldom, John Rex proceeded to play for the great stake ofhis life with the utmost caution. He went to the Continent, and lived for weekstogether in the towns where Richard Devine might possibly have resided,familiarizing himself with streets, making the acquaintance of old inhabitants,drawing into his own hands all loose ends of information which could help toknit the meshes of his net the closer. Such loose ends were not numerous; theprodigal had been too poor, too insignificant, to leave strong memories behindhim. Yet Rex knew well by what strange accidents the deceit of an assumedidentity is often penetrated. Some old comrade or companion of the lost heirmight suddenly appear with keen questions as to trifles which could cut hisflimsy web to shreds, as easily as the sword of Saladin divided the floatingsilk. He could not afford to ignore the most insignificant circ*mstances. Withconsummate skill, piece by piece he built up the story which was to deceive thepoor mother, and to make him possessor of one of the largest private fortunesin England.

This was the tale he hit upon. He had been saved from the burning Hydaspesby a vessel bound for Rio. Ignorant of the death of Sir Richard, and promptedby the pride which was known to be a leading feature of his character, he haddetermined not to return until fortune should have bestowed upon him wealth atleast equal to the inheritance from which he had been ousted. In SpanishAmerica he had striven to accumulate that wealth in vain. As vequero,traveller, speculator, sailor, he had toiled for fourteen years, and hadfailed. Worn out and penitent, he had returned home to find a corner of Englishearth in which to lay his weary bones. The tale was plausible enough, and inthe telling of it he was armed at all points. There was little fear that thenavigator of the captured Osprey, the man who had lived in Chile and "cut out"cattle on the Carrum Plains, would prove lacking in knowledge of riding,seamanship, or Spanish customs. Moreover, he had determined upon a course ofaction which showed his knowledge of human nature.

The will under which Richard Devine inherited was dated in 1807, and hadbeen made when the testator was in the first hopeful glow of paternity. By itsterms Lady Devine was to receive a life interest of three thousand a year inher husband's property—which was placed in the hands of twotrustees—until her eldest son died or attained the age of twenty-fiveyears. When either of these events should occur, the property was to berealized, Lady Devine receiving a sum of a hundred thousand pounds, which,invested in Consols for her benefit, would, according to Sir Richard's prudentcalculation exactly compensate for her loss of interest, the remainder goingabsolutely to the son, if living, to his children or next of kin if dead. Thetrustees appointed were Lady Devine's father, Colonel Wotton Wade, and Mr.Silas Quaid, of the firm of Purkiss and Quaid Thavies Inn, Sir Richard'ssolicitors. Colonel Wade, before his death had appointed his son, Mr. FrancisWade, to act in his stead. When Mr. Quaid died, the firm of Purkiss and Quaid(represented in the Quaid branch of it by a smart London-bred nephew) declinedfurther responsibility; and, with the consent of Lady Devine, Francis Wadecontinued alone in his trust. Sir Richard's sister and her husband, AnthonyFrere, of Bristol, were long ago dead, and, as we know, their representative,Maurice Frere, content at last in the lot that fortune had sent him, had givenup all thought of meddling with his uncle's business. John Rex, therefore, inthe person of the returned Richard, had but two persons to satisfy, hisputative uncle, Mr. Francis Wade, and his putative mother, Lady Devine.

This he found to be the easiest task possible. Francis Wade was an invalidvirtuoso, who detested business, and whose ambition was to be known as man oftaste. The possessor of a small independent income, he had resided at North Endever since his father's death, and had made the place a miniature StrawberryHill. When, at his sister's urgent wish, he assumed the sole responsibility ofthe estate, he put all the floating capital into 3 per cents., and was contentto see the interest accumulate. Lady Devine had never recovered the shock ofthe circ*mstances attending Sir Richard's death and, clinging to the belief inher son's existence, regarded herself as the mere guardian of his interests, tobe displaced at any moment by his sudden return. The retired pair lived thustogether, and spent in charity and bric-a-brac about a fourth of their mutualincome. By both of them the return of the wanderer was hailed with delight. ToLady Devine it meant the realization of a lifelong hope, become part of hernature. To Francis Wade it meant relief from a responsibility which hissimplicity always secretly loathed, the responsibility of looking after anotherperson's money.

"I shall not think of interfering with the arrangements which you have made,my dear uncle," said Mr. John Rex, on the first night of his reception. "Itwould be most ungrateful of me to do so. My wants are very few, and can easilybe supplied. I will see your lawyers some day, and settle it."

"See them at once, Richard; see them at once. I am no man of business, youknow, but I think you will find all right."

Richard, however, put off the visit from day to day. He desired to have aslittle to do with lawyers as possible. He had resolved upon his course ofaction. He would get money from his mother for immediate needs, and when thatmother died he would assert his rights. "My rough life has unfitted me fordrawing-rooms, dear mother," he said. "Do not let there be a display about myreturn. Give me a corner to smoke my pipe, and I am happy." Lady Devine, with aloving tender pity, for which John Rex could not altogether account, consented,and "Mr. Richard" soon came to be regarded as a martyr to circ*mstances, a manconscious of his own imperfections, and one whose imperfections were thereforelightly dwelt upon. So the returned prodigal had his own suite of rooms, hisown servants, his own bank account, drank, smoked, and was merry. For five orsix months he thought himself in Paradise. Then he began to find his lifeinsufferably weary. The burden of hypocrisy is very heavy to bear, and Rex wascompelled perpetually to bear it. His mother demanded all his time. She hungupon his lips; she made him repeat fifty times the story of his wanderings. Shewas never tired of kissing him, of weeping over him, and of thanking him forthe "sacrifice" he had made for her.

"We promised never to speak of it more, Richard," the poor lady said oneday, "but if my lifelong love can make atonement for the wrong I have doneyou—"

"Hush, dearest mother," said John Rex, who did not in the least comprehendwhat it was all about. "Let us say no more."

Lady Devine wept quietly for a while, and then went away, leaving the manwho pretended to be her son much bewildered and a little frightened. There wasa secret which he had not fathomed between Lady Devine and her son. The motherdid not again refer to it, and, gaining courage as the days went on, Rex grewbold enough to forget his fears. In the first stages of his deception he hadbeen timid and cautious. Then the soothing influence of comfort, respect, andsecurity came upon him, and almost refined him. He began to feel as he had feltwhen Mr. Lionel Crofton was alive. The sensation of being ministered to by aloving woman, who kissed him night and morning, calling him "son"—ofbeing regarded with admiration by rustics, with envy by respectablefolk—of being deferred to in all things—was novel and pleasing.They were so good to him that he felt at times inclined to confess all, andleave his case in the hands of the folk he had injured. Yet—hethought—such a course would be absurd. It would result in no benefit toanyone, simply in misery to himself. The true Richard Devine was buried fathomsdeep in the greedy ocean of convict-discipline, and the waves of innumerablepunishments washed over him. John Rex flattered himself that he had usurped thename of one who was in fact no living man, and that, unless one should risefrom the dead, Richard Devine could never return to accuse him. So flatteringhimself, he gradually became bolder, and by slow degrees suffered his truenature to appear. He was violent to the servants, cruel to dogs and horses,often wantonly coarse in speech, and brutally regardless of the feelings ofothers. Governed, like most women, solely by her feelings, Lady Devine had atfirst been prodigal of her affection to the man she believed to be her injuredson. But his rash acts of selfishness, his habits of grossness andself-indulgence, gradually disgusted her. For some time she—poorwoman—fought against this feeling, endeavouring to overcome her instinctsof distaste, and arguing with herself that to permit a detestation of herunfortunate son to arise in her heart was almost criminal; but she was atlength forced to succumb.

For the first year Mr. Richard conducted himself with great propriety, butas his circle of acquaintance and his confidence in himself increased, he nowand then forgot the part he was playing. One day Mr. Richard went to pass theday with a sporting friend, only too proud to see at his table so wealthy andwonderful a man. Mr. Richard drank a good deal more than was good for him, andreturned home in a condition of disgusting drunkenness. I say disgusting,because some folks have the art of getting drunk after a humorous fashion, thatrobs intoxication of half its grossness. For John Rex to be drunk was to behimself—coarse and cruel. Francis Wade was away, and Lady Devine hadretired for the night, when the dog-cart brought home "Mr. Richard". Thevirtuous butler-porter, who opened the door, received a blow in the chest and ademand for "Brandy!" The groom was cursed, and ordered to instant oblivion. Mr.Richard stumbled into the dining-room—veiled in dim light as adining-room which was "sitting up" for its master ought to be—and ordered"more candles!" The candles were brought, after some delay, and Mr. Richardamused himself by spilling their meltings upon the carpet. "Let's have'luminashon!" he cried; and climbing with muddy boots upon the costly chairs,scraping with his feet the polished table, attempted to fix the wax in thesilver sconces, with which the antiquarian tastes of Mr. Francis Wade hadadorned the room.

"You'll break the table, sir," said the servant.

"Damn the table!" said Rex. "Buy 'nother table. What's table t'you?" "Oh,certainly, sir," replied the man.

"Oh, c'ert'nly! Why c'ert'nly? What do you know about it?"

"Oh, certainly not, sir," replied the man.

"If I had—stockwhip here—I'd make you—hic—skip!Whar's brandy?"

"Here, Mr. Richard."

"Have some! Good brandy! Send for servantsh and have dance. D'you dance,Tomkins?"

"No, Mr. Richard."

"Then you shall dance now, Tomkins. You'll dance upon nothing one day,Tomkins! Here! Halloo! Mary! Susan! Janet! William! Hey! Halloo!" And he beganto shout and blaspheme.

"Don't you think it's time for bed, Mr. Richard?" one of the men ventured tosuggest.

"No!" roared the ex-convict, emphatically, "I don't! I've gone to bed atdaylight far too long. We'll have 'luminashon! I'm master here. Mastereverything. Richard 'Vine's my name. Isn't it, Tomkins, you villain?"

"Oh-h-h! Yes, Mr. Richard."

"Course it is, and make you know it too! I'm no painter-picture, crockerychap. I'm genelman! Genelman seen the world! Knows what's what. There ain'tmuch I ain't fly to. Wait till the old woman's dead, Tomkins, and you shallsee!" More swearing, and awful threats of what the inebriate would do when hewas in possession. "Bring up some brandy!" Crash goes the bottle in thefire-place. "Light up the droring-rooms; we'll have dance! I'm drunk! What'sthat? If you'd gone through what I have, you'd be glad to be drunk. I look afool"—this to his image in another glass. "I ain't though, or I wouldn'tbe here. Curse you, you grinning idiot"—crash goes his fist through themirror—"don't grin at me. Play up there! Where's old woman? Fetch her outand let's dance!"

"Lady Devine has gone to bed, Mr. Richard," cried Tomkins, aghast,attempting to bar the passage to the upper regions.

"Then let's have her out o' bed," cried John Rex, plunging to the door.

Tomkins, attempting to restrain him, is instantly hurled into a cabinet ofrare china, and the drunken brute essays the stairs. The other servants seizehim. He curses and fights like a demon. Doors bang open, lights gleam, maidshover, horrified, asking if it's "fire?" and begging for it to be "put out".The whole house is in an uproar, in the midst of which Lady Devine appears, andlooks down upon the scene. Rex catches sight of her; and bursts into blasphemy.She withdraws, strangely terrified; and the animal, torn, bloody, andblasphemous, is at last got into his own apartments, the groom, whose face hadbeen seriously damaged in the encounter, bestowing a hearty kick on theprostrate carcase at parting.

The next morning Lady Devine declined to see her son, though he sent aspecial apology to her.

"I am afraid I was a little overcome by wine last night," said he toTomkins. "Well, you was, sir," said Tomkins.

"A very little wine makes me quite ill, Tomkins. Did I do anything veryviolent?"

"You was rather obstropolous, Mr. Richard."

"Here's a sovereign for you, Tomkins. Did I say anything?"

"You cussed a good deal, Mr. Richard. Most gents do when they'vebin—hum—dining out, Mr. Richard."

"What a fool I am," thought John Rex, as he dressed. "I shall spoileverything if I don't take care." He was right. He was going the right way tospoil everything. However, for this bout he made amends—money soothed theservants' hall, and apologies and time won Lady Devine's forgiveness.

"I cannot yet conform to English habits, my dear mother," said Rex, "andfeel at times out of place in your quiet home. I think that—if you canspare me a little money—I should like to travel."

Lady Devine—with a sense of relief for which she blamedherself—assented, and supplied with letters of credit, John Rex went toParis.

Fairly started in the world of dissipation and excess, he began to growreckless. When a young man, he had been singularly free from the vice ofdrunkenness; turning his sobriety—as he did all his virtues—tovicious account; but he had learnt to drink deep in the loneliness of the bush.Master of a large sum of money, he had intended to spend it as he would havespent it in his younger days. He had forgotten that since his death and burialthe world had not grown younger. It was possible that Mr. Lionel Crofton mighthave discovered some of the old set of fools and knaves with whom he had oncemixed. Many of them were alive and flourishing. Mr. Lemoine, for instance, wasrespectably married in his native island of Jersey, and had already threatenedto disinherit a nephew who showed a tendency to dissipation.

But Mr. Lemoine would not care to recognize Mr. Lionel Crofton, the gamblerand rake, in his proper person, and it was not expedient that his acquaintanceshould be made in the person of Richard Devine, lest by some unlucky chance heshould recognize the cheat. Thus poor Lionel Crofton was compelled to lie stillin his grave, and Mr. Richard Devine, trusting to a big beard and more burlyfigure to keep his secret, was compelled to begin his friendship with Mr.Lionel's whilom friends all over again. In Paris and London there were plentyof people ready to become hail-fellow-well-met with any gentleman possessingmoney. Mr. Richard Devine's history was whispered in many a boudoir andclub-room. The history, however, was not always told in the same way. It wasgenerally known that Lady Devine had a son, who, being supposed to be dead, hadsuddenly returned, to the confusion of his family. But the manner of his returnwas told in many ways.

In the first place, Mr. Francis Wade, well-known though he was, did not movein that brilliant circle which had lately received his nephew. There are inEngland many men of fortune, as large as that left by the old ship-builder, whoare positively unknown in that little world which is supposed to contain allthe men worth knowing. Francis Wade was a man of mark in his own coterie. Amongartists, bric-a-brac sellers, antiquarians, and men of letters he was known asa patron and man of taste. His bankers and his lawyers knew him to be ofindependent fortune, but as he neither mixed in politics, "went into society",betted, or speculated in merchandise, there were several large sections of thecommunity who had never heard his name. Many respectable money-lenders wouldhave required "further information" before they would discount his bills; and"clubmen" in general—save, perhaps, those ancient quidnuncs who knoweverybody, from Adam downwards—had but little acquaintance with him. Theadvent of Mr. Richard Devine—a coarse person of unlimited means—hadtherefore chief influence upon that sinister circle of male and female rogueswho form the "half-world". They began to inquire concerning his antecedents,and, failing satisfactory information, to invent lies concerning him. It wasgenerally believed that he was a black sheep, a man whose family kept him outof the way, but who was, in a pecuniary sense, "good" for a considerablesum.

Thus taken upon trust, Mr. Richard Devine mixed in the very best of badsociety, and had no lack of agreeable friends to help him to spend money. Soadmirably did he spend it, that Francis Wade became at last alarmed at thefrequent drafts, and urged his nephew to bring his affairs to a finalsettlement. Richard Devine—in Paris, Hamburg, or London, orelsewhere—could never be got to attack business, and Mr. Francis Wadegrew more and more anxious. The poor gentleman positively became ill throughthe anxiety consequent upon his nephew's dissipations. "I wish, my dearRichard, that you would let me know what to do," he wrote. "I wish, my dearuncle, that you would do what you think best," was his nephew's reply.

"Will you let Purkiss and Quaid look into the business?" said the badgeredFrancis.

"I hate lawyers," said Richard. "Do what you think right."

Mr. Wade began to repent of his too easy taking of matters in the beginning.Not that he had a suspicion of Rex, but that he had remembered that Dick wasalways a loose fish. The even current of the dilettante's life becamedisturbed. He grew pale and hollow-eyed. His digestion was impaired. He ceasedto take the interest in china which the importance of that article demanded. Ina word, he grew despondent as to his fitness for his mission in life. LadyEllinor saw a change in her brother. He became morose, peevish, excitable. Shewent privately to the family doctor, who shrugged his shoulders. "There is nodanger," said he, "if he is kept quiet; keep him quiet, and he will live foryears; but his father died of heart disease, you know." Lady Ellinor, uponthis, wrote a long letter to Mr. Richard, who was at Paris, repeated thedoctor's opinions, and begged him to come over at once. Mr. Richard repliedthat some horse-racing matter of great importance occupied his attention, butthat he would be at his rooms in Clarges Street (he had long ago established atown house) on the 14th, and would "go into matters". "I have lost a good dealof money lately, my dear mother," said Mr. Richard, "and the present will be agood opportunity to make a final settlement." The fact was that John Rex, nowthree years in undisturbed possession, considered that the moment had arrivedfor the execution of his grand coup—the carrying off at one swoop of thewhole of the fortune he had gambled for.

CHAPTER III. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

May 12th—landed to-day at Norfolk Island, and have been introduced tomy new abode, situated some eleven hundred miles from Sydney. A solitary rockin the tropical ocean, the island seems, indeed, a fit place of banishment. Itis about seven miles long and four broad. The most remarkable natural objectis, of course, the Norfolk Island pine, which rears its stately head a hundredfeet above the surrounding forest. The appearance of the place is very wild andbeautiful, bringing to my mind the description of the romantic islands of thePacific, which old geographers dwell upon so fondly. Lemon, lime, and guavatrees abound, also oranges, grapes, figs, bananas, peaches, pomegranates, andpine-apples. The climate just now is hot and muggy. The approach toKingstown—as the barracks and huts are called—is properlydifficult. A long low reef—probably originally a portion of the barrenrocks of Nepean and Philip Islands, which rise east and west of thesettlement—fronts the bay and obstructs the entrance of vessels. We werelanded in boats through an opening in this reef, and our vessel stands on andoff within signalling distance. The surf washes almost against the walls of themilitary roadway that leads to the barracks. The social aspect of the placefills me with horror. There seems neither discipline nor order. On our way tothe Commandant's house we passed a low dilapidated building where men weregrinding maize, and at the sight of us they commenced whistling, hooting, andshouting, using the most disgusting language. Three warders were near, but noattempt was made to check this unseemly exhibition.

May 14th.—I sit down to write with as much reluctance as though I wereabout to relate my experience of a journey through a sewer.

First to the prisoners' barracks, which stand on an area of about threeacres, surrounded by a lofty wall. A road runs between this wall and the sea.The barracks are three storeys high, and hold seven hundred and ninety men (letme remark here that there are more than two thousand men on the island). Thereare twenty-two wards in this place. Each ward runs the depth of the building,viz., eighteen feet, and in consequence is simply a funnel for hot or cold airto blow through. When the ward is filled, the men's heads lie under thewindows. The largest ward contains a hundred men, the smallest fifteen. Theysleep in hammocks, slung close to each other as on board ship, in two lines,with a passage down the centre. There is a wardsman to each ward. He isselected by the prisoners, and is generally a man of the worst character. He issupposed to keep order, but of course he never attempts to do so; indeed, as heis locked up in the ward every night from six o'clock in the evening untilsunrise, without light, it is possible that he might get maltreated did he makehimself obnoxious.

The barracks look upon the Barrack Square, which is filled with loungingprisoners. The windows of the hospital-ward also look upon Barrack Square, andthe prisoners are in constant communication with the patients. The hospital isa low stone building, capable of containing about twenty men, and faces thebeach. I placed my hands on the wall, and found it damp. An ulcerous prisonersaid the dampness was owing to the heavy surf constantly rolling so closebeneath the building. There are two gaols, the old and the new. The old gaolstands near the sea, close to the landing-place. Outside it, at the door, isthe Gallows. I touched it as I passed in. This engine is the first thing whichgreets the eyes of a newly-arrived prisoner. The new gaol is barely completed,is of pentagonal shape, and has eighteen radiating cells of a pattern approvedby some wiseacre in England, who thinks that to prevent a man from seeing hisfellowmen is not the way to drive him mad. In the old gaol are twenty-fourprisoners, all heavily ironed, awaiting trial by the visiting Commission, fromHobart Town. Some of these poor ruffians, having committed their offences justafter the last sitting of the Commission, have already been in gaol upwards ofeleven months!

At six o'clock we saw the men mustered. I read prayers before the muster,and was surprised to find that some of the prisoners attended, while somestrolled about the yard, whistling, singing, and joking. The muster is a farce.The prisoners are not mustered outside and then marched to their wards, butthey rush into the barracks indiscriminately, and place themselves dressed orundressed in their hammocks. A convict sub-overseer then calls out the names,and somebody replies. If an answer is returned to each name, all is consideredright. The lights are taken away, and save for a few minutes at eight o'clock,when the good-conduct men are let in, the ruffians are left to their owndevices until morning. Knowing what I know of the customs of the convicts, myheart sickens when I in imagination put myself in the place of anewly-transported man, plunged from six at night until daybreak into thatfoetid den of worse than wild beasts.

May 15th.—There is a place enclosed between high walls adjoining theconvict barracks, called the Lumber Yard. This is where the prisoners mess. Itis roofed on two sides, and contains tables and benches. Six hundred men canmess here perhaps, but as seven hundred are always driven into it, it followsthat the weakest men are compelled to sit on the ground. A more disorderlysight than this yard at meal times I never beheld. The cook-houses areadjoining it, and the men bake their meal-bread there. Outside the cook-housedoor the firewood is piled, and fires are made in all directions on the ground,round which sit the prisoners, frying their rations of fresh pork, baking theirhominy cakes, chatting, and even smoking.

The Lumber Yard is a sort of Alsatia, to which the hunted prisoner retires.I don't think the boldest constable on the island would venture into that placeto pick out a man from the seven hundred. If he did go in I don't think hewould come out again alive.

May 16th.—A sub-overseer, a man named Hankey, has been talking to me.He says that there are some forty of the oldest and worst prisoners who formwhat he calls the "Ring", and that the members of this "Ring" are bound by oathto support each other, and to avenge the punishment of any of their number. Inproof of his assertions he instanced two cases of English prisoners who hadrefused to join in some crime, and had informed the Commandant of theproceedings of the Ring. They were found in the morning strangled in theirhammocks. An inquiry was held, but not a man out of the ninety in the wardwould speak a word. I dread the task that is before me. How can I attempt topreach piety and morality to these men? How can I attempt even to save the lessvillainous?

May 17th.—Visited the wards to-day, and returned in despair. Thecondition of things is worse than I expected. It is not to be written. Thenewly-arrived English prisoners—and some of their histories are mosttouching—are insulted by the language and demeanour of the hardenedmiscreants who are the refuse of Port Arthur and co*ckatoo Island. The vilestcrimes are perpetrated as jests. These are creatures who openly defy authority,whose language and conduct is such as was never before seen or heard out ofBedlam. There are men who are known to have murdered their companions, and whoboast of it. With these the English farm labourer, the riotous and ignorantmechanic, the victim of perjury or mistake, are indiscriminately herded. Withthem are mixed Chinamen from Hong Kong, the Aborigines of New Holland, WestIndian blacks, Greeks, Caffres, and Malays, soldiers for desertion, idiots,madmen, pig-stealers, and pick-pockets. The dreadful place seems set apart forall that is hideous and vile in our common nature. In its recklessness, itsinsubordination, its filth, and its despair, it realizes to my mind the popularnotion of Hell.

May 21st.—Entered to-day officially upon my duties as ReligiousInstructor at the Settlement.

An occurrence took place this morning which shows the dangerous condition ofthe Ring. I accompanied Mr. Pounce to the Lumber Yard, and, on our entry, weobserved a man in the crowd round the cook-house deliberately smoking. TheChief Constable of the Island—my old friend Troke, of PortArthur—seeing that this exhibition attracted Pounce's notice, pointed outthe man to an assistant. The assistant, Jacob Gimblett, advanced and desiredthe prisoner to surrender the pipe. The man plunged his hands into his pockets,and, with a gesture of the most profound contempt, walked away to that part ofthe mess-shed where the "Ring" congregate.

"Take the scoundrel to gaol!" cried Troke.

No one moved, but the man at the gate that leads through the carpenter'sshop into the barracks, called to us to come out, saying that the prisonerswould never suffer the man to be taken. Pounce, however, with moredetermination than I gave him credit for, kept his ground, and insisted that soflagrant a breach of discipline should not be suffered to pass unnoticed. Thusurged, Mr. Troke pushed through the crowd, and made for the spot whither theman had withdrawn himself.

The yard was buzzing like a disturbed hive, and I momentarily expected thata rush would be made upon us. In a few moments the prisoner appeared, attendedby, rather than in the custody of, the Chief Constable of the island. Headvanced to the unlucky assistant constable, who was standing close to me, andasked, "What have you ordered me to gaol for?" The man made some reply,advising him to go quietly, when the convict raised his fist and deliberatelyfelled the man to the ground. "You had better retire, gentlemen," said Troke."I see them getting out their knives."

We made for the gate, and the crowd closed in like a sea upon the twoconstables. I fully expected murder, but in a few moments Troke and Gimblettappeared, borne along by a mass of men, dusty, but unharmed, and having theconvict between them. He sulkily raised a hand as he passed me, either torectify the position of his straw hat, or to offer a tardy apology. A morewanton, unprovoked, and flagrant outrage than that of which this man was guiltyI never witnessed. It is customary for "the old dogs", as the experiencedconvicts are called, to use the most opprobrious language to their officers,and to this a deaf ear is usually turned, but I never before saw a man wantonlystrike a constable. I fancy that the act was done out of bravado. Trokeinformed me that the man's name is Rufus Dawes, and that he is the leader ofthe Ring, and considered the worst man on the island; that to secure him he(Troke) was obliged to use the language of expostulation; and that, but for thepresence of an officer accredited by his Excellency, he dared not have acted ashe had done.

This is the same man, then, whom I injured at Port Arthur. Seven years of"discipline" don't seem to have done him much good. His sentence is"life"—a lifetime in this place! Troke says that he was the terror ofPort Arthur, and that they sent him here when a "weeding" of the prisoners wasmade. He has been here four years. Poor wretch!

May 24th.—After prayers, I saw Dawes. He was confined in the Old Gaol,and seven others were in the cell with him. He came out at my request, andstood leaning against the door-post. He was much changed from the man Iremember. Seven years ago he was a stalwart, upright, handsome man. He hasbecome a beetle-browed, sullen, slouching ruffian. His hair is grey, though hecannot be more than forty years of age, and his frame has lost that justproportion of parts which once made him almost graceful. His face has alsogrown like other convict faces—how hideously alike they allare!—and, save for his black eyes and a peculiar trick he had ofcompressing his lips, I should not have recognized him. How habitual sin andmisery suffice to brutalize "the human face divine"! I said but little, for theother prisoners were listening, eager, as it appeared to me, to witness mydiscomfiture. It is evident that Rufus Dawes had been accustomed to meet theministrations of my predecessors with insolence. I spoke to him for a fewminutes, only saying how foolish it was to rebel against an authority superiorin strength to himself. He did not answer, and the only emotion he evincedduring the interview was when I reminded him that we had met before. Heshrugged one shoulder, as if in pain or anger, and seemed about to speak, but,casting his eyes upon the group in the cell, relapsed into silence again. Imust get speech with him alone. One can do nothing with a man if seven otherdevils worse than himself are locked up with him.

I sent for Hankey, and asked him about cells. He says that the gaol iscrowded to suffocation. "Solitary confinement" is a mere name. There are sixmen, each sentenced to solitary confinement, in a cell together. The cell iscalled the "nunnery". It is small, and the six men were naked to the waist whenI entered, the perspiration pouring in streams off their naked bodies! It isdisgusting to write of such things.

June 26th.—Pounce has departed in the Lady Franklin for Hobart Town,and it is rumoured that we are to have a new Commandant. The Lady Franklin iscommanded by an old man named Blunt, a protegé of Frere's, and a fellowto whom I have taken one of my inexplicable and unreasoning dislikes.

Saw Rufus Dawes this morning. He continues sullen and morose. His papers arevery bad. He is perpetually up for punishment. I am informed that he and a mannamed Eastwood, nicknamed "Jacky Jacky", glory in being the leaders of theRing, and that they openly avow themselves weary of life. Can it be that theunmerited flogging which the poor creature got at Port Arthur has aided, withother sufferings, to bring him to this horrible state of mind? It is quitepossible. Oh, James North, remember your own crime, and pray Heaven to let youredeem one soul at least, to plead for your own at the Judgment Seat.

June 30th.—I took a holiday this afternoon, and walked in thedirection of Mount Pitt. The island lay at my feet like—as sings Mrs.Frere's favourite poet—"a summer isle of Eden lying in dark purple sphereof sea". Sophocles has the same idea in the Philoctetes, but I can't quote it.Note: I measured a pine twenty-three feet in circumference. I followed a littlebrook that runs from the hills, and winds through thick undergrowths of creeperand blossom, until it reaches a lovely valley surrounded by lofty trees, whosebranches, linked together by the luxurious grape-vine, form an arching bower ofverdure. Here stands the ruin of an old hut, formerly inhabited by the earlysettlers; lemons, figs, and guavas are thick; while amid the shrub and cane alarge convolvulus is entwined, and stars the green with its purple and crimsonflowers. I sat down here, and had a smoke. It seems that the former occupant ofmy rooms at the settlement read French; for in searching for a book to bringwith me—I never walk without a book—I found and pocketed a volumeof Balzac. It proved to be a portion of the Vie Priveé series, and Istumbled upon a story called La Fausse Maitresse. With calm belief in the Parisof his imagination—where Marcas was a politician, Nucingen a banker,Gobseck a money-lender, and Vautrin a candidate for some such place asthis—Balzac introduces me to a Pole by name Paz, who, loving the wife ofhis friend, devotes himself to watch over her happiness and her husband'sinterest. The husband gambles and is profligate. Paz informs the wife that theleanness which hazard and debauchery have caused to the domestic exchequer isdue to his extravagance, the husband having lent him money. She does notbelieve, and Paz feigns an intrigue with a circus-rider in order to lull allsuspicions. She says to her adored spouse, "Get rid of this extravagant friend!Away with him! He is a profligate, a gambler! A drunkard!" Paz finally departs,and when he has gone, the lady finds out the poor Pole's worth. The story doesnot end satisfactorily. Balzac was too great a master of his art for that. Inreal life the curtain never falls on a comfortably-finished drama. The playgoes on eternally.

I have been thinking of the story all evening. A man who loves his friend'swife, and devotes his energies to increase her happiness by concealing from herher husband's follies! Surely none but Balzac would have hit upon such anotion. "A man who loves his friend's wife."—Asmodeus, I write no more! Ihave ceased to converse with thee for so long that I blush to confess all thatI have in my heart.—I will not confess it, so that shall suffice.

CHAPTER IV. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

August 24th.—There has been but one entry in my journal since the 30thJune, that which records the advent of our new Commandant, who, as I expected,is Captain Maurice Frere.

So great have been the changes which have taken place that I scarcely knowhow to record them. Captain Frere has realized my worst anticipations. He isbrutal, vindictive, and domineering. His knowledge of prisons and prisonersgives him an advantage over Burgess, otherwise he much resembles that murderousanimal. He has but one thought—to keep the prisoners in subjection. Solong as the island is quiet, he cares not whether the men live or die. "I wassent down here to keep order," said he to me, a few days after his arrival,"and by God, sir, I'll do it!"

He has done it, I must admit; but at a cost of a legacy of hatred to himselfthat he may some day regret to have earned. He has organized three parties ofpolice. One patrols the fields, one is on guard at stores and public buildings,and the third is employed as a detective force. There are two hundred soldierson the island. And the officer in charge, Captain McNab, has been induced byFrere to increase their duties in many ways. The cords of discipline aresuddenly drawn tight. For the disorder which prevailed when I landed, Frere hassubstituted a sudden and excessive rigour. Any officer found giving thesmallest piece of tobacco to a prisoner is liable to removal from theisland..The tobacco which grows wild has been rooted up and destroyed lest themen should obtain a leaf of it. The privilege of having a pannikin of hot waterwhen the gangs came in from field labour in the evening has been withdrawn. Theshepherds, hut-keepers, and all other prisoners, whether at the stations ofLongridge or the Cascades (where the English convicts are stationed) areforbidden to keep a parrot or any other bird. The plaiting of straw hats duringthe prisoners' leisure hours is also prohibited. At the settlement where the"old hands" are located railed boundaries have been erected, beyond which noprisoner must pass unless to work. Two days ago Job Dodd, a negro, let hisjacket fall over the boundary rails, crossed them to recover it, and wasseverely flogged. The floggings are hideously frequent. On flogging mornings Ihave seen the ground where the men stood at the triangles saturated with blood,as if a bucket of blood had been spilled on it, covering a space three feet indiameter, and running out in various directions, in little streams two or threefeet long. At the same time, let me say, with that strict justice I forcemyself to mete out to those whom I dislike, that the island is in a conditionof abject submission. There is not much chance of mutiny. The men go to theirwork without a murmur, and slink to their dormitories like whipped hounds tokennel. The gaols and solitary (!) cells are crowded with prisoners, and eachday sees fresh sentences for fresh crimes. It is crime here to do anything butlive.

The method by which Captain Frere has brought about this repose ofdesolation is characteristic of him. He sets every man as a spy upon hisneighbour, awes the more daring into obedience by the display of a ruffianismmore outrageous than their own, and, raising the worst scoundrels in the placeto office, compels them to find "cases" for punishment. Perfidy is rewarded. Ithas been made part of a convict-policeman's duty to search a fellow-prisoneranywhere and at any time. This searching is often conducted in a wantonly roughand disgusting manner; and if resistance be offered, the man resisting can beknocked down by a blow from the searcher's bludgeon. Inquisitorial vigilanceand indiscriminating harshness prevail everywhere, and the lives of hundreds ofprisoners are reduced to a continual agony of terror and self-loathing.

"It is impossible, Captain Frere," said I one day, during the initiation ofthis system, "to think that these villains whom you have made constables willdo their duty."

He replied, "They must do their duty. If they are indulgent to theprisoners, they know I shall flog 'em. If they do what I tell 'em, they'll makethemselves so hated that they'd have their own father up to the triangles tosave themselves being sent back to the ranks."

"You treat them then like slave-keepers of a wild beast den. They must flogthe animals to avoid being flogged themselves."

"Ay," said he, with his coarse laugh, "and having once flogged 'em, they'ddo anything rather than be put in the cage, don't you see!"

It is horrible to think of this sort of logic being used by a man who has awife, and friends and enemies. It is the logic that the Keeper of the Tormentedwould use, I should think. I am sick unto death of the place. It makes me anunbeliever in the social charities. It takes out of penal science anything itmay possess of nobility or worth. It is cruel, debasing, inhuman.

August 26th.—Saw Rufus Dawes again to-day. His usual bearing isostentatiously rough and brutal. He has sunk to a depth of self-abasem*nt inwhich he takes a delight in his degradation. This condition is one familiar tome.

He is working in the chain-gang to which Hankey was made sub-overseer. BlindMooney, an ophthalmic prisoner, who was removed from the gang to hospital, toldme that there was a plot to murder Hankey, but that Dawes, to whom he had shownsome kindness, had prevented it. I saw Hankey and told him of this, asking himif he had been aware of the plot. He said "No," falling into a great tremble."Major Pratt promised me a removal," said he. "I expected it would come tothis." I asked him why Dawes defended him; and after some trouble he told me,exacting from me a promise that I would not acquaint the Commandant. It seemsthat one morning last week, Hankey had gone up to Captain Frere's house with areturn from Troke, and coming back through the garden had plucked a flower.Dawes had asked him for this flower, offering two days' rations for it. Hankey,who is not a bad-hearted man, gave him the sprig. "There were tears in his eyesas he took it," said he.

There must be some way to get at this man's heart, bad as he seems tobe.

August 28th.—Hankey was murdered yesterday. He applied to be removedfrom the gaol-gang, but Frere refused. "I never let my men 'funk'," he said."If they've threatened to murder you, I'll keep you there another month inspite of 'em."

Someone who overheard this reported it to the gang, and they set upon theunfortunate gaoler yesterday, and beat his brains out with their shovels. Trokesays that the wretch who was foremost cried, "There's for you; and if yourmaster don't take care, he'll get served the same one of these days!" The gangwere employed at building a reef in the sea, and were working up to theirarmpits in water. Hankey fell into the surf, and never moved after the firstblow. I saw the gang, and Dawes said—

"It was Frere's fault; he should have let the man go!"

"I am surprised you did not interfere," said I. "I did all I could," was theman's answer. "What's a life more or less, here?"

This occurrence has spread consternation among the overseers, and they haveaddressed a "round robin" to the Commandant, praying to be relieved from theirpositions.

The way Frere has dealt with this petition is characteristic of him, andfills me at once with admiration and disgust. He came down with it in his handto the gaol-gang, walked into the yard, shut the gate, and said, "I've just gotthis from my overseers. They say they're afraid you'll murder them as youmurdered Hankey. Now, if you want to murder, murder me. Here I am. Step out,one of you." All this, said in a tone of the most galling contempt, did notmove them. I saw a dozen pairs of eyes flash hatred, but the bull-dog courageof the man overawed them here, as, I am told, it had done in Sydney. It wouldhave been easy to kill him then and there, and his death, I am told, is swornamong them; but no one raised a finger. The only man who moved was Rufus Dawes,and he checked himself instantly. Frere, with a recklessness of which I did notthink him capable, stepped up to this terror of the prison, and ran his handslightly down his sides, as is the custom with constables when "searching" aman. Dawes—who is of a fierce temper—turned crimson at this and, Ithought, would have struck him, but he did not. Frere then—still unarmedand alone—proceeded to the man, saying, "Do you think of bolting again,Dawes? Have you made any more boats?"

"You Devil!" said the chained man, in a voice pregnant with such weight ofunborn murder, that the gang winced. "You'll find me one," said Frere, with alaugh; and, turning to me, continued, in the same jesting tone, "There's apenitent for you, Mr. North—try your hand on him."

I was speechless at his audacity, and must have shown my disgust in my face,for he coloured slightly, and as we were leaving the yard, he endeavoured toexcuse himself, by saying that it was no use preaching to stones, and suchdoubly-dyed villains as this Dawes were past hope. "I know the ruffian of old,"said he. "He came out in the ship from England with me, and tried to raise amutiny on board. He was the man who nearly murdered my wife. He has never beenout of irons—except then and when he escaped—for the last eighteenyears; and as he's three life sentences, he's like to die in 'em."

A monstrous wretch and criminal, evidently, and yet I feel a strangesympathy with this outcast.

CHAPTER V. MR. RICHARD DEVINE SURPRISED.

The town house of Mr. Richard Devine was in Clarges Street. Not that thevery modest mansion there situated was the only establishment of which RichardDevine was master. Mr. John Rex had expensive tastes. He neither shot norhunted, so he had no capital invested in Scotch moors or Leicestershirehunting-boxes. But his stables were the wonder of London, he owned almost aracing village near Doncaster, kept a yacht at Cowes, and, in addition to ahouse in Paris, paid the rent of a villa at Brompton. He belonged to severalclubs of the faster sort, and might have lived like a prince at any one of themhad he been so minded; but a constant and haunting fear ofdiscovery—which three years of unquestioned ease and unbridled riot hadnot dispelled—led him to prefer the privacy of his own house, where hecould choose his own society. The house in Clarges Street was decorated inconformity with the tastes of its owner. The pictures were pictures of horses,the books were records of races, or novels purporting to describe sportinglife. Mr. Francis Wade, waiting, on the morning of the 20th April, for thecoming of his nephew, sighed as he thought of the cultured quiet of North EndHouse.

Mr. Richard appeared in his dressing-gown. Three years of good living andhard drinking had deprived his figure of its athletic beauty. He was past fortyyears of age, and the sudden cessation from severe bodily toil to which in hisactive life as a convict and squatter he had been accustomed, had increasedRex's natural proneness to fat, and instead of being portly he had becomegross. His cheeks were inflamed with the frequent application of hot andrebellious liquors to his blood. His hands were swollen, and not so steady asof yore. His whiskers were streaked with unhealthy grey. His eyes, bright andblack as ever, lurked in a thicket of crow's feet. He had become prematurelybald—a sure sign of mental or bodily excess. He spoke with assumedheartiness, in a boisterous tone of affected ease.

"Ha, ha! My dear uncle, sit down. Delighted to see you. Have youbreakfasted?—of course you have. I was up rather late last night. Quitesure you won't have anything. A glass of wine? No—then sit down and tellme all the news of Hampstead."

"Thank you, Richard," said the old gentleman, a little stiffly, "but I wantsome serious talk with you. What do you intend to do with the property? Thisindecision worries me. Either relieve me of my trust, or be guided by myadvice."

"Well, the fact is," said Richard, with a very ugly look on his face, "thefact is—and you may as well know it at once—I am much pushed formoney."

"Pushed for money!" cried Mr. Wade, in horror. "Why, Purkiss said theproperty was worth twenty thousand a year."

"So it might have been—five years ago—but my horse-racing, andbetting, and other amusem*nts, concerning which you need not too curiouslyinquire, have reduced its value considerably."

He spoke recklessly and roughly. It was evident that success had butdeveloped his ruffianism. His "dandyism" was only comparative. The impulse ofpoverty and scheming which led him to affect the "gentleman" having beenremoved, the natural brutality of his nature showed itself quite freely. Mr.Francis Wade took a pinch of snuff with a sharp motion of distaste. "I do notwant to hear of your debaucheries," he said; "our name has been sufficientlydisgraced in my hearing."

"What is got over the devil's back goes under his belly," replied Mr.Richard, coarsely. "My old father got his money by dirtier ways than these inwhich I spend it. As villainous an old scoundrel and skinflint as ever poisoneda seaman, I'll go bail."

Mr. Francis rose. "You need not revile your father, Richard—he leftyou all."

"Ay, but by pure accident. He didn't mean it. If he hadn't died in the nickof time, that unhung murderous villain, Maurice Frere, would have come in forit. By the way," he added, with a change of tone, "do you ever hear anything ofMaurice?"

"I have not heard for some years," said Mr. Wade. "He is something in theConvict Department at Sydney, I think." "Is he?" said Mr. Richard, with ashiver. "Hope he'll stop there. Well, but about business. The fact is,that—that I am thinking of selling everything."

"Selling everything!"

"Yes. 'Pon my soul I am. The Hampstead place and all."

"Sell North End House!" cried poor Mr. Wade, in bewilderment. "You'd sellit? Why, the carvings by Grinling Gibbons are the finest in England."

"I can't help that," laughed Mr. Richard, ringing the bell. "I want cash,and cash I must have.—Breakfast, Smithers.—I'm going totravel."

Francis Wade was breathless with astonishment. Educated and reared as he hadbeen, he would as soon have thought of proposing to sell St. Paul's Cathedralas to sell the casket which held his treasures of art—his coins, hiscoffee-cups, his pictures, and his "proofs before letters".

"Surely, Richard, you are not in earnest?" he gasped.

"I am, indeed."

"But—but who will buy it?"

"Plenty of people. I shall cut it up into building allotments. Besides, theyare talking of a suburban line, with a terminus at St. John's Wood, which willcut the garden in half. You are quite sure you've breakfasted? Then pardonme."

"Richard, you are jesting with me! You will never let them do such athing!"

"I'm thinking of a trip to America," said Mr. Richard, cracking an egg. "Iam sick of Europe. After all, what is the good of a man like me pretending tobelong to 'an old family', with 'a seat' and all that humbug? Money is thething now, my dear uncle. Hard cash! That's the ticket for soup, you maydepend."

"Then what do you propose doing, sir?"

"To buy my mother's life interest as provided, realize upon the property,and travel," said Mr. Richard, helping himself to potted grouse.

"You amaze me, Richard. You confound me. Of course you can do as you please.But so sudden a determination. The oldhouse—vases—coins—pictures—scattered—Ireally—Well, it is your property, of course—and—and—Iwish you a very good morning!"

"I mean to do as I please," soliloquized Rex, as he resumed his breakfast."Let him sell his rubbish by auction, and go and live abroad, in Germany orJerusalem if he likes, the farther the better for me. I'll sell the propertyand make myself scarce. A trip to America will benefit my health."

A knock at the door made him start.

"Come in! Curse it, how nervous I'm getting. What's that? Letters? Give themto me; and why the devil don't you put the brandy on the table, Smithers?"

He drank some of the spirit greedily, and then began to open hiscorrespondence.

"Cussed brute," said Mr. Smithers, outside the door. "He couldn't use wusslangwidge if he was a dook, dam 'im!—Yessir," he added, suddenly, as aroar from his master recalled him.

"When did this come?" asked Mr. Richard, holding out a letter more thanusually disfigured with stampings.

"Lars night, sir. It's bin to 'Amstead, sir, and come down directed with theh'others." The angry glare of the black eyes induced him to add, "I 'opethere's nothink wrong, sir."

"Nothing, you infernal ass and idiot," burst out Mr. Richard, white withrage, "except that I should have had this instantly. Can't you see it's markedurgent? Can you read? Can you spell? There, that will do. No lies. Getout!"

Left to himself again, Mr. Richard walked hurriedly up and down the chamber,wiped his forehead, drank a tumbler of brandy, and finally sat down and re-readthe letter. It was short, but terribly to the purpose.

"THE GEORGE HOTEL, PLYMOUTH," 17th April, 1846.

"I have found you out, you see. Never mind how just at present. I know allabout your proceedings, and unless Mr. Richard Devine receives his "wife" withdue propriety, he'll find himself in the custody of the police. Telegraph,dear, to Mrs. Richard Devine, at above address.

"Yours as ever, Jack,

"To Richard Devine, Esq., "North End House, "Hampstead."

The blow was unexpected and severe. It was hard, in the very high tide andflush of assured success, to be thus plucked back into the old bondage. Despitethe affectionate tone of the letter, he knew the woman with whom he had todeal. For some furious minutes he sat motionless, gazing at the letter. He didnot speak—men seldom do under such circ*mstances—but his thoughtsran in this fashion: "Here is this cursed woman again! Just as I wascongratulating myself on my freedom. How did she discover me? Small use askingthat. What shall I do? I can do nothing. It is absurd to run away, for I shallbe caught. Besides, I've no money. My account at Mastermann's is overdrawn twothousand pounds. If I bolt at all, I must bolt at once—within twenty-fourhours. Rich as I am, I don't suppose I could raise more than five thousandpounds in that time. These things take a day or two, say forty-eight hours. Inforty-eight hours I could raise twenty thousand pounds, but forty-eight hoursis too long. Curse the woman! I know her! How in the fiend's name did shediscover me? It's a bad job. However, she's not inclined to be gratuitiouslydisagreeable. How lucky I never married again! I had better make terms andtrust to fortune. After all, she's been a good friend to me.—PoorSally!—I might have rotted on that infernal Eaglehawk Neck if it hadn'tbeen for her. She is not a bad sort. Handsome woman, too. I may make it up withher. I shall have to sell off and go away after all.—It might beworse.—I dare say the property's worth three hundred thousand pounds. Notbad for a start in America. And I may get rid of her yet. Yes. I must givein.—Oh, curse her!—[ringing the bell]—Smithers!" [Smithersappears.] "A telegraph form and a cab! Stay. Pack me a dressing-bag. I shall beaway for a day or so. [Sotto voce]—I'd better see her myself.—[Aloud]—Bring me a Bradshaw! [Sotto voce]—Damn the woman."

CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE CHAPLAIN IS TAKEN ILL.

Though the house of the Commandant of Norfolk Island was comfortable andwell furnished, and though, of necessity, all that was most hideous in the"discipline" of the place was hidden, the loathing with which Sylvia hadapproached the last and most dreaded abiding place of the elaborate convictsystem, under which it had been her misfortune to live, had not decreased. Thesights and sounds of pain and punishment surrounded her. She could not look outof her windows without a shudder. She dreaded each evening when her husbandreturned, lest he should blurt out some new atrocity. She feared to ask him inthe morning whither he was going, lest he should thrill her with theannouncement of some fresh punishment.

"I wish, Maurice, we had never come here," said she, piteously, when herecounted to her the scene of the gaol-gang. "These unhappy men will do yousome frightful injury one of these days."

"Stuff!" said her husband. "They've not the courage. I'd take the best manamong them, and dare him to touch me."

"I cannot think how you like to witness so much misery and villainy. It ishorrible to think of."

"Our tastes differ, my dear.—Jenkins! Confound you! Jenkins, I say."The convict-servant entered. "Where is the charge-book? I've told you always tohave it ready for me. Why don't you do as you are told? You idle, lazyscoundrel! I suppose you were yarning in the cookhouse, or—"

"If you please, sir."

"Don't answer me, sir. Give me the book." Taking it and running his fingerdown the leaves, he commented on the list of offences to which he would becalled upon in the morning to mete out judgment.

"Meer-a-seek, having a pipe—the rascally Hindooscoundrel!—Benjamin Pellett, having fat in his possession. Miles Byrne,not walking fast enough.—We must enliven Mr. Byrne. Thomas Twist, havinga pipe and striking a light. W. Barnes, not in place at muster; says he was'washing himself'—I'll wash him! John Richards, missing muster andinsolence. John Gateby, insolence and insubordination. James Hopkins, insolenceand foul language. Rufus Dawes, gross insolence, refusing to work.—Ah! wemust look after you. You are a parson's man now, are you? I'll break yourspirit, my man, or I'll—Sylvia!"

"Yes."

"Your friend Dawes is doing credit to his bringing up."

"What do you mean?"

"That infernal villain and reprobate, Dawes. He is fitting himself fasterfor—" She interrupted him. "Maurice, I wish you would not use suchlanguage. You know I dislike it." She spoke coldly and sadly, as one who knowsthat remonstrance is vain, and is yet constrained to remonstrate.

"Oh, dear! My Lady Proper! can't bear to hear her husband swear. How refinedwe're getting!"

"There, I did not mean to annoy you," said she, wearily. "Don't let usquarrel, for goodness' sake."

He went away noisily, and she sat looking at the carpet wearily. A noiseroused her. She looked up and saw North. Her face beamed instantly. "Ah! Mr.North, I did not expect you. What brings you here? You'll stay to dinner, ofcourse." (She rang the bell without waiting for a reply.) "Mr. North dineshere; place a chair for him. And have you brought me the book? I have beenlooking for it."

"Here it is," said North, producing a volume of 'Monte Cristo'. She seizedthe book with avidity, and, after running her eyes over the pages, turnedinquiringly to the fly-leaf.

"It belongs to my predecessor," said North, as though in answer to herthought. "He seems to have been a great reader of French. I have found manyFrench novels of his."

"I thought clergymen never read French novels," said Sylvia, with asmile.

"There are French novels and French novels," said North. "Stupid peopleconfound the good with the bad. I remember a worthy friend of mine in Sydneywho soundly abused me for reading 'Rabelais', and when I asked him if he hadread it, he said that he would sooner cut his hand off than open it. Admirablejudge of its merits!"

"But is this really good? Papa told me it was rubbish."

"It is a romance, but, in my opinion, a very fine one. The notion of thesailor being taught in prison by the priest, and sent back into the world anaccomplished gentleman, to work out his vengeance, is superb."

"No, now—you are telling me," laughed she; and then, with feminineperversity, "Go on, what is the story?"

"Only that of an unjustly imprisoned man, who, escaping by a marvel, andbecoming rich—as Dr. Johnson says, 'beyond the dreams ofavarice'—devotes his life and fortune to revenge himself."

"And does he?"

"He does, upon all his enemies save one."

"And he—?" "She—was the wife of his greatest enemy, andDantès spared her because he loved her."

Sylvia turned away her head. "It seems interesting enough," said she,coldly.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, which each seemed afraid tobreak. North bit his lips, as though regretting what he had said. Mrs. Frerebeat her foot on the floor, and at length, raising her eyes, and meeting thoseof the clergyman fixed upon her face, rose hurriedly, and went to meet herreturning husband.

"Come to dinner, of course!" said Frere, who, though he disliked theclergyman, yet was glad of anybody who would help him to pass a cheerfulevening.

"I came to bring Mrs. Frere a book."

"Ah! She reads too many books; she's always reading books. It is not a goodthing to be always poring over print, is it, North? You have some influencewith her; tell her so. Come, I am hungry."

He spoke with that affectation of jollity with which husbands of his calibreveil their bad temper.

Sylvia had her defensive armour on in a twinkling. "Of course, you two menwill be against me. When did two men ever disagree upon the subject of wifelyduties? However, I shall read in spite of you. Do you know, Mr. North, thatwhen I married I made a special agreement with Captain Frere that I was not tobe asked to sew on buttons for him?"

"Indeed!" said North, not understanding this change of humour.

"And she never has from that hour," said Frere, recovering his suavity atthe sight of food. "I never have a shirt fit to put on. Upon my word, there area dozen in the drawer now."

North perused his plate uncomfortably. A saying of omniscient Balzacoccurred to him. "Le grand écueil est le ridicule," and his mind beganto sound all sorts of philosophical depths, not of the most clericalcharacter.

After dinner Maurice launched out into his usual topic—convictdiscipline. It was pleasant for him to get a listener; for his wife, cold andunsympathetic, tacitly declined to enter into his schemes for the subduing ofthe refractory villains. "You insisted on coming here," she would say. "I didnot wish to come. I don't like to talk of these things. Let us talk ofsomething else." When she adopted this method of procedure, he had noalternative but to submit, for he was afraid of her, after a fashion. In thisill-assorted match he was only apparently the master. He was a physical tyrant.For him, a creature had but to be weak to be an object of contempt; and hisgross nature triumphed over the finer one of his wife. Love had long since diedout of their life. The young, impulsive, delicate girl, who had given herselfto him seven years before, had been changed into a weary, suffering woman. Thewife is what her husband makes her, and his rude animalism had made her thenervous invalid she was. Instead of love, he had awakened in her a distastewhich at times amounted to disgust. We have neither the skill nor the boldnessof that profound philosopher whose autopsy of the human heart awoke North'scontemplation, and we will not presume to set forth in bare English the storyof this marriage of the Minotaur. Let it suffice to say that Sylvia liked herhusband least when he loved her most. In this repulsion lay her power over him.When the animal and spiritual natures cross each other, the nobler triumphs infact if not in appearance. Maurice Frere, though his wife obeyed him, knew thathe was inferior to her, and was afraid of the statue he had created. She wasice, but it was the artificial ice that chemists make in the midst of afurnace. Her coldness was at once her strength and her weakness. When shechilled him, she commanded him.

Unwitting of the thoughts that possessed his guest, Frere chatted amicably.North said little, but drank a good deal. The wine, however, rendered himsilent, instead of talkative. He drank that he might forget unpleasantmemories, and drank without accomplishing his object. When the pair proceededto the room where Mrs. Frere awaited them, Frere was boisterouslygood-humoured, North silently misanthropic.

"Sing something, Sylvia!" said Frere, with the ease of possession, as onewho should say to a living musical-box, "Play something."

"Oh, Mr. North doesn't care for music, and I'm not inclined to sing. Singingseems out of place here."

"Nonsense," said Frere. "Why should it be more out of place here thananywhere else?"

"Mrs. Frere means that mirth is in a manner unsuited to these melancholysurroundings," said North, out of his keener sense.

"Melancholy surroundings!" cried Frere, staring in turn at the piano, theottomans, and the looking-glass. "Well, the house isn't as good as the one inSydney, but it's comfortable enough."

"You don't understand me, Maurice," said Sylvia. "This place is very gloomyto me. The thought of the unhappy men who are ironed and chained all about usmakes me miserable."

"What stuff!" said Frere, now thoroughly roused. "The ruffians deserve allthey get and more. Why should you make yourself wretched about them?"

"Poor men! How do we know the strength of their temptation, the bitternessof their repentance?"

"Evil-doers earn their punishment," says North, in a hard voice, and takingup a book suddenly. "They must learn to bear it. No repentance can undo theirsin."

"But surely there is mercy for the worst of evil-doers," urged Sylvia,gently.

North seemed disinclined or unable to reply, and nodded only.

"Mercy!" cried Frere. "I am not here to be merciful; I am here to keep thesescoundrels in order, and by the Lord that made me, I'll do it!"

"Maurice, do not talk like that. Think how slight an accident might havemade any one of us like one of these men. What is the matter, Mr. North?"

Mr. North has suddenly turned pale.

"Nothing," returned the clergyman, gasping—"a sudden faintness!" Thewindows were thrown open, and the chaplain gradually recovered, as he did inBurgess's parlour, at Port Arthur, seven years ago. "I am liable to theseattacks. A touch of heart disease, I think. I shall have to rest for a day orso." "Ah, take a spell," said Frere; "you overwork yourself."

North, sitting, gasping and pale, smiles in a ghastly manner. "I—Iwill. If I do not appear for a week, Mrs. Frere, you will know the reason."

"A week! Surely it will not last so long as that!" exclaims Sylvia.

The ambiguous "it" appears to annoy him, for he flushes painfully, replying,"Sometimes longer. It is, a—um—uncertain," in a confused andshame-faced manner, and is luckily relieved by the entry of Jenkins.

"A message from Mr. Troke, sir."

"Troke! What's the matter now?"

"Dawes, sir, 's been violent and assaulted Mr. Troke. Mr. Troke said you'dleft orders to be told at onst of the insubordination of prisoners."

"Quite right. Where is he?" "In the cells, I think, sir. They had a hardfight to get him there, I am told, your honour."

"Had they? Give my compliments to Mr. Troke, and tell him that I shall havethe pleasure of breaking Mr. Dawes's spirit to-morrow morning at ninesharp."

"Maurice," said Sylvia, who had been listening to the conversation inundisguised alarm, "do me a favour? Do not torment this man."

"What makes you take a fancy to him?" asks her husband, with suddenunnecessary fierceness.

"Because his is one of the names which have been from my childhoodsynonymous with suffering and torture, because whatever wrong he may have done,his life-long punishment must have in some degree atoned for it."

She spoke with an eager pity in her face that transfigured it. North,devouring her with his glance, saw tears in her eyes. "Does this look as if hehad made atonement?" said Frere coarsely, slapping the letter.

"He is a bad man, I know, but—" she passed her hand over her foreheadwith the old troubled gesture—"he cannot have been always bad. I think Ihave heard some good of him somewhere."

"Nonsense," said Frere, rising decisively. "Your fancies mislead you. Let mehear you no more. The man is rebellious, and must be lashed back again to hisduty. Come, North, we'll have a nip before you start."

"Mr. North, will not you plead for me?" suddenly cried poor Sylvia, herself-possession overthrown. "You have a heart to pity these sufferingcreatures."

But North, who seemed to have suddenly recalled his soul from some placewhere it had been wandering, draws himself aside, and with dry lips makes shiftto say, "I cannot interfere with your husband, madam," and goes out almostrudely.

"You've made old North quite ill," said Frere, when he by-and-by returns,hoping by bluff ignoring of roughness on his own part to avoid reproach fromhis wife. "He drank half a bottle of brandy to steady his nerves before he wenthome, and swung out of the house like one possessed."

But Sylvia, occupied with her own thoughts, did not reply.

CHAPTER VII. BREAKING A MAN'S SPIRIT.

The insubordination of which Rufus Dawes had been guilty was, in thisinstance, insignificant. It was the custom of the newly-fledged constables ofCaptain Frere to enter the wards at night, armed with cutlasses, trampingabout, and making a great noise. Mindful of the report of Pounce, they pulledthe men roughly from their hammocks, examined their persons for concealedtobacco, and compelled them to open their mouths to see if any was inside. Themen in Dawes's gang—to which Mr. Troke had an especialobjection—were often searched more than once in a night, searched goingto work, searched at meals, searched going to prayers, searched coming out, andthis in the roughest manner. Their sleep broken, and what little self-respectthey might yet presume to retain harried out of them, the objects of thisincessant persecution were ready to turn upon and kill their tormentors.

The great aim of Troke was to catch Dawes tripping, but the leader of the"Ring" was far too wary. In vain had Troke, eager to sustain his reputation forsharpness, burst in upon the convict at all times and seasons. He had foundnothing. In vain had he laid traps for him; in vain had he "planted" figs oftobacco, and attached long threads to them, waited in a bush hard by, until thepluck at the end of his line should give token that the fish had bitten. Theexperienced "old hand" was too acute for him. Filled with disgust and ambition,he determined upon an ingenious little trick. He was certain that Dawespossessed tobacco; the thing was to find it upon him. Now, Rufus Dawes, holdingaloof, as was his custom, from the majority of his companions, had made onefriend—if so mindless and battered an old wreck could be called afriend—Blind Mooney. Perhaps this oddly-assorted friendship was broughtabout by two causes—one, that Mooney was the only man on the island whoknew more of the horrors of convictism than the leader of the Ring; the other,that Mooney was blind, and, to a moody, sullen man, subject to violent fits ofpassion and a constant suspicion of all his fellow-creatures, a blind companionwas more congenial than a sharp-eyed one.

Mooney was one of the "First Fleeters". He had arrived in Sydney fifty-sevenyears before, in the year 1789, and when he was transported he was fourteenyears old. He had been through the whole round of servitude, had worked as abondsman, had married, and been "up country", had been again sentenced, and wasa sort of dismal patriarch of Norfolk Island, having been there at its formersettlement. He had no friends. His wife was long since dead, and he stated,without contradiction, that his master, having taken a fancy to her, haddespatched the uncomplaisant husband to imprisonment. Such cases were notuncommon.

One of the many ways in which Rufus Dawes had obtained the affection of theold blind man was a gift of such fragments of tobacco as he had himself fromtime to time secured. Troke knew this; and on the evening in question hit uponan excellent plan. Admitting himself noiselessly into the boat-shed, where thegang slept, he crept close to the sleeping Dawes, and counterfeiting Mooney'smumbling utterance asked for "some tobacco". Rufus Dawes was but half awake,and on repeating his request, Troke felt something put into his hand. Hegrasped Dawes's arm, and struck a light. He had got his man this time. Daweshad conveyed to his fancied friend a piece of tobacco almost as big as the topjoint of his little finger. One can understand the feelings of a man entrappedby such base means. Rufus Dawes no sooner saw the hated face of Warder Trokepeering over his hammock, then he sprang out, and exerting to the utmost hispowerful muscles, knocked Mr. Troke fairly off his legs into the arms of thein-coming constables. A desperate struggle took place, at the end of which theconvict, overpowered by numbers, was borne senseless to the cells, gagged, andchained to the ring-bolt on the bare flags. While in this condition he wassavagely beaten by five or six constables.

To this maimed and manacled rebel was the Commandant ushered by Troke thenext morning.

"Ha! ha! my man," said the Commandant. "Here you are again, you see. How doyou like this sort of thing?"

Dawes, glaring, makes no answer.

"You shall have fifty lashes, my man," said Frere. "We'll see how you feelthen!" The fifty were duly administered, and the Commandant called the nextday. The rebel was still mute.

"Give him fifty more, Mr. Troke. We'll see what he's made of."

One hundred and twenty lashes were inflicted in the course of the morning,but still the sullen convict refused to speak. He was then treated to fourteendays' solitary confinement in one of the new cells. On being brought out andconfronted with his tormentor, he merely laughed. For this he was sent back foranother fourteen days; and still remaining obdurate, was flogged again, and gotfourteen days more. Had the chaplain then visited him, he might have found himopen to consolation, but the chaplain—so it was stated—was sick.When brought out at the conclusion of his third confinement, he was found to bein so exhausted a condition that the doctor ordered him to hospital. As soon ashe was sufficiently recovered, Frere visited him, and finding his "spirit" notyet "broken", ordered that he should be put to grind maize. Dawes declined towork. So they chained his hand to one arm of the grindstone and placed anotherprisoner at the other arm. As the second prisoner turned, the hand of Dawes ofcourse revolved.

"You're not such a pebble as folks seemed to think," grinned Frere, pointingto the turning wheel.

Upon which the indomitable poor devil straightened his sorely-tried muscles,and prevented the wheel from turning at all. Frere gave him fifty more lashes,and sent him the next day to grind cayenne pepper. This was a punishment moredreaded by the convicts than any other. The pungent dust filled their eyes andlungs, causing them the most excruciating torments. For a man with a raw backthe work was one continued agony. In four days Rufus Dawes, emaciated,blistered, blinded, broke down.

"For God's sake, Captain Frere, kill me at once!" he said.

"No fear," said the other, rejoiced at this proof of his power. "You'vegiven in; that's all I wanted. Troke, take him off to the hospital."

When he was in hospital, North visited him.

"I would have come to see you before," said the clergyman, "but I have beenvery ill."

In truth he looked so. He had had a fever, it seemed, and they had shavedhis beard, and cropped his hair. Dawes could see that the haggard, wasted manhad passed through some agony almost as great as his own. The next day Frerevisited him, complimented him on his courage, and offered to make him aconstable. Dawes turned his scarred back to his torturer, and resolutelydeclined to answer.

"I am afraid you have made an enemy of the Commandant," said North, the nextday. "Why not accept his offer?"

Dawes cast on him a glance of quiet scorn. "And betray my mates? I'm not oneof that sort."

The clergyman spoke to him of hope, of release, of repentance, andredemption. The prisoner laughed. "Who's to redeem me?" he said, expressing histhoughts in phraseology that to ordinary folks might seem blasphemous. "Itwould take a Christ to die again to save such as I."

North spoke to him of immortality. "There is another life," said he. "Do notrisk your chance of happiness in it. You have a future to live for, man."

"I hope not," said the victim of the "system". "I want to rest—torest, and never to be disturbed again."

His "spirit" was broken enough by this time. Yet he had resolution enough torefuse Frere's repeated offers. "I'll never 'jump' it," he said to North, "ifthey cut me in half first."

North pityingly implored the stubborn mind to have mercy on the laceratedbody, but without effect. His own wayward heart gave him the key to read thecipher of this man's life. "A noble nature ruined," said he to himself. "Whatis the secret of his history?"

Dawes, on his part, seeing how different from other black coats was thispriest—at once so ardent and so gloomy, so stern and sotender—began to speculate on the cause of his monitor's sunken cheeks,fiery eyes, and pre-occupied manner, to wonder what grief inspired thoseagonized prayers, those eloquent and daring supplications, which were dailypoured out over his rude bed. So between these two—the priest and thesinner—was a sort of sympathetic bond.

One day this bond was drawn so close as to tug at both their heart-strings.The chaplain had a flower in his coat. Dawes eyed it with hungry looks, and, asthe clergyman was about to quit the room, said, "Mr. North, will you give methat rosebud?" North paused irresolutely, and finally, as if after a strugglewith himself, took it carefully from his button-hole, and placed it in theprisoner's brown, scarred hand. In another instant Dawes, believing himselfalone, pressed the gift to his lips. North returned abruptly, and the eyes ofthe pair met. Dawes flushed crimson, but North turned white as death. Neitherspoke, but each was drawn close to the other, since both had kissed the rosebudplucked by Sylvia's fingers.

CHAPTER VIII. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

October 21st.—I am safe for another six months if I am careful, for mylast bout lasted longer than I expected. I suppose one of these days I shallhave a paroxysm that will kill me. I shall not regret it.

I wonder if this familiar of mine—I begin to detest theexpression—will accuse me of endeavouring to make a case for myself if Isay that I believe my madness to be a disease? I do believe it. I honestly canno more help getting drunk than a lunatic can help screaming and gibbering. Itwould be different with me, perhaps, were I a contented man, happily married,with children about me, and family cares to distract me. But as I am—alonely, gloomy being, debarred from love, devoured by spleen, and tortured withrepressed desires—I become a living torment to myself. I think of happiermen, with fair wives and clinging children, of men who are loved and who love,of Frere for instance—and a hideous wild beast seems to stir within me, amonster, whose cravings cannot be satisfied, can only be drowned in stupefyingbrandy.

Penitent and shattered, I vow to lead a new life; to forswear spirits, todrink nothing but water. Indeed, the sight and smell of brandy make me ill. Allgoes well for some weeks, when I grow nervous, discontented, moody. I smoke,and am soothed. But moderation is not to be thought of; little by little Iincrease the dose of tobacco. Five pipes a day become six or seven. Then Icount up to ten and twelve, then drop to three or four, then mount to eleven ata leap; then lose count altogether. Much smoking excites the brain. I feelclear, bright, gay. My tongue is parched in the morning, however, and I useliquor to literally "moisten my clay". I drink wine or beer in moderation, andall goes well. My limbs regain their suppleness, my hands their coolness, mybrain its placidity. I begin to feel that I have a will. I am confident, calm,and hopeful. To this condition succeeds one of the most frightful melancholy. Iremain plunged, for an hour together, in a stupor of despair. The earth, air,sea, all appear barren, colourless. Life is a burden. I long to sleep, andsleeping struggle to awake, because of the awful dreams which flap about me inthe darkness. At night I cry, "Would to God it were morning!" In the morning,"Would to God it were evening!" I loathe myself, and all around me. I amnerveless, passionless, bowed down with a burden like the burden of Saul. Iknow well what will restore me to life and ease—restore me, but to castme back again into a deeper fit of despair. I drink. One glass—my bloodis warmed, my heart leaps, my hand no longer shakes. Three glasses—I risewith hope in my soul, the evil spirit flies from me. I continue—pleasingimages flock to my brain, the fields break into flower, the birds into song,the sea gleams sapphire, the warm heaven laughs. Great God! what man couldwithstand a temptation like this?

By an effort, I shake off the desire to drink deeper, and fix my thoughts onmy duties, on my books, on the wretched prisoners. I succeed perhaps for atime; but my blood, heated by the wine which is at once my poison and my life,boils in my veins. I drink again, and dream. I feel all the animal within mestirring. In the day my thoughts wander to all monstrous imaginings. The mostfamiliar objects suggest to me loathsome thoughts. Obscene and filthy imagessurround me. My nature seems changed. By day I feel myself a wolf in sheep'sclothing; a man possessed by a devil, who is ready at any moment to break outand tear him to pieces. At night I become a satyr. While in this torment I atonce hate and fear myself. One fair face is ever before me, gleaming through myhot dreams like a flying moon in the sultry midnight of a tropic storm. I darenot trust myself in the presence of those whom I love and respect, lest my wildthoughts should find vent in wilder words. I lose my humanity. I am a beast.Out of this depth there is but one way of escape. Downwards. I must drench themonster I have awakened until he sleeps again. I drink and become oblivious. Inthese last paroxysms there is nothing for me but brandy. I shut myself up aloneand pour down my gullet huge draughts of spirit. It mounts to my brain. I am aman again! and as I regain my manhood, I topple over—dead drunk.

But the awakening! Let me not paint it. The delirium, the fever, theself-loathing, the prostration, the despair. I view in the looking-glass ahaggard face, with red eyes. I look down upon shaking hands, flaccid muscles,and shrunken limbs. I speculate if I shall ever be one of those grotesque andmelancholy beings, with bleared eyes and running noses, swollen bellies andshrunken legs! Ugh!—it is too likely.

October 22nd.—Have spent the day with Mrs. Frere. She is evidentlyeager to leave the place—as eager as I am. Frere rejoices in hismurderous power, and laughs at her expostulations. I suppose men get tired oftheir wives. In my present frame of mind I am at a loss to understand how a mancould refuse a wife anything.

I do not think she can possibly care for him. I am not a selfishsentimentalist, as are the majority of seducers. I would take no woman awayfrom a husband for mere liking. Yet I think there are cases in which a man wholoved would be justified in making a woman happy at the risk of hisown—soul, I suppose.

Making her happy! Ay, that's the point. Would she be happy? There are fewmen who can endure to be "cut", slighted, pointed at, and women suffer morethan men in these regards. I, a grizzled man of forty, am not such an arrantass as to suppose that a year of guilty delirium can compensate to agently-nurtured woman for the loss of that social dignity which constitutes herbest happiness. I am not such an idiot as to forget that there may come a timewhen the woman I love may cease to love me, and having no tie of self-respect,social position, or family duty, to bind her, may inflict upon her seducer thatagony which he has taught her to inflict upon her husband. Apart from thequestion of the sin of breaking the seventh commandment, I doubt if the worsthusband and the most unhappy home are not better, in this social condition ofours, than the most devoted lover. A strange subject this for a clergyman tospeculate upon! If this diary should ever fall into the hands of a realGod-fearing, honest booby, who never was tempted to sin by finding that atmiddle-age he loved the wife of another, how he would condemn me! And rightly,of course.

November 4th.—In one of the turnkey's rooms in the new gaol is to beseen an article of harness, which at first creates surprise to the mind of thebeholder, who considers what animal of the brute creation exists of sodiminutive a size as to admit of its use. On inquiry, it will be found to be abridle, perfect in head-band, throat-lash, etc., for a human being. There isattached to this bridle a round piece of cross wood, of almost four inches inlength, and one and a half in diameter. This again, is secured to a broad strapof leather to cross the mouth. In the wood there is a small hole, and, whenused, the wood is inserted in the mouth, the small hole being the onlybreathing space. This being secured with the various straps and buckles, a morecomplete bridle could not be well imagined.

I was in the gaol last evening at eight o'clock. I had been to see RufusDawes, and returning, paused for a moment to speak to Hailey. Gimblett, whorobbed Mr. Vane of two hundred pounds, was present, he was at that time aturnkey, holding a third-class pass, and in receipt of two shillings per diem.Everything was quite still. I could not help remarking how quiet the gaol was,when Gimblett said, "There's someone speaking. I know who that is." Andforthwith took from its pegs one of the bridles just described, and a pair ofhandcuffs.

I followed him to one of the cells, which he opened, and therein was a manlying on his straw mat, undressed, and to all appearance fast asleep. Gimblettordered him to get up and dress himself. He did so, and came into the yard,where Gimblett inserted the iron-wood gag in his mouth. The sound produced byhis breathing through it (which appeared to be done with great difficulty)resembled a low, indistinct whistle. Gimblett led him to the lamp-post in theyard, and I saw that the victim of his wanton tyranny was the poor blind wretchMooney. Gimblett placed him with his back against the lamp-post, and his armsbeing taken round, were secured by handcuffs round the post. I was told thatthe old man was to remain in this condition for three hours. I went at once tothe Commandant. He invited me into his drawing-room—an invitation which Ihad the good sense to refuse—but refused to listen to any plea for mercy."The old impostor is always making his blindness an excuse for disobedience,"said he.—And this is her husband.

CHAPTER IX. THE LONGEST STRAW.

Rufus Dawes hearing, when "on the chain" the next day, of the wanton tortureof his friend, uttered no threat of vengeance, but groaned only. "I am not sostrong as I was," said he, as if in apology for his lack of spirit. "They haveunnerved me." And he looked sadly down at his gaunt frame and tremblinghands.

"I can't stand it no longer," said Mooney, grimly. "I've spoken to Bland,and he's of my mind. You know what we resolved to do. Let's do it."

Rufus Dawes stared at the sightless orbs turned inquiringly to his own. Thefingers of his hand, thrust into his bosom, felt a token which lay there. Ashudder thrilled him. "No, no. Not now," he said.

"You're not afeard, man?" asked Mooney, stretching out his hand in thedirection of the voice. "You're not going to shirk?" The other avoided thetouch, and shrank away, still staring. "You ain't going to back out after youswored it, Dawes? You're not that sort. Dawes, speak, man!"

"Is Bland willing?" asked Dawes, looking round, as if to seek some method ofescape from the glare of those unspeculative eyes.

"Ay, and ready. They flogged him again yesterday."

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dawes, at length.

"No; let's have it over," urged the old man, with a strange eagerness. "I'mtired o' this."

Rufus Dawes cast a wistful glance towards the wall behind which lay thehouse of the Commandant. "Leave it till to-morrow," he repeated, with his handstill in his breast.

They had been so occupied in their conversation that neither had observedthe approach of their common enemy. "What are you hiding there?" cried Frere,seizing Dawes by the wrist. "More tobacco, you dog?" The hand of the convict,thus suddenly plucked from his bosom, opened involuntarily, and a withered rosefell to the earth. Frere at once, indignant and astonished, picked it up."Hallo! What the devil's this? You've not been robbing my garden for a nosegay,Jack?" The Commandant was wont to call all convicts "Jack" in his moments offacetiousness. It was a little humorous way he had.

Rufus Dawes uttered one dismal cry, and then stood trembling and cowed. Hiscompanions, hearing the exclamation of rage and grief that burst from him,looked to see him snatch back the flower or perform some act of violence.Perhaps such was his intention, but he did not execute it. One would havethought that there was some charm about this rose so strangely cherished, forhe stood gazing at it, as it twirled between Captain Frere's strong fingers, asthough it fascinated him. "You're a pretty man to want a rose for yourbuttonhole! Are you going out with your sweetheart next Sunday, Mr. Dawes?" Thegang laughed. "How did you get this?" Dawes was silent. "You'd better tell me."No answer. "Troke, let us see if we can't find Mr. Dawes's tongue. Pull offyour shirt, my man. I expect that's the way to your heart—eh, boys?"

At this elegant allusion to the lash, the gang laughed again, and looked ateach other astonished. It seemed possible that the leader of the "Ring" wasgoing to turn milksop. Such, indeed, appeared to be the case, for Dawes,trembling and pale, cried, "Don't flog me again, sir! I picked it up in theyard. It fell out of your coat one day." Frere smiled with an inwardsatisfaction at the result of his spirit-breaking. The explanation was probablythe correct one. He was in the habit of wearing flowers in his coat and it wasimpossible that the convict should have obtained one by any other means. Had itbeen a fig of tobacco now, the astute Commandant knew plenty of men who wouldhave brought it into the prison. But who would risk a flogging for so useless athing as a flower? "You'd better not pick up any more, Jack," he said. "Wedon't grow flowers for your amusem*nt." And contemptuously flinging the roseover the wall, he strode away.

The gang, left to itself for a moment, bestowed their attention upon Dawes.Large tears were silently rolling down his face, and he stood staring at thewall as one in a dream. The gang curled their lips. One fellow, more charitablethan the rest, tapped his forehead and winked. "He's going cranky," said thisgood-natured man, who could not understand what a sane prisoner had to do withflowers. Dawes recovered himself, and the contemptuous glances of hiscompanions seemed to bring back the colour to his cheeks.

"We'll do it to-night," whispered he to Mooney, and Mooney smiled withpleasure.

Since the "tobacco trick", Mooney and Dawes had been placed in the newprison, together with a man named Bland, who had already twice failed to killhimself. When old Mooney, fresh from the torture of the gag-and-bridle,lamented his hard case, Bland proposed that the three should put in practice ascheme in which two at least must succeed. The scheme was a desperate one, andattempted only in the last extremity. It was the custom of the Ring, however,to swear each of its members to carry out to the best of his ability this lastinvention of the convict-disciplined mind should two other members crave hisassistance.

The scheme—like all great ideas—was simplicity itself.

That evening, when the cell-door was securely locked, and the absence of avisiting gaoler might be counted upon for an hour at least, Bland produced astraw, and held it out to his companions. Dawes took it, and tearing it intounequal lengths, handed the fragments to Mooney.

"The longest is the one," said the blind man. "Come on, boys, and dip in thelucky-bag!"

It was evident that lots were to be drawn to determine to whom fortune wouldgrant freedom. The men drew in silence, and then Bland and Dawes looked at eachother. The prize had been left in the bag. Mooney—fortunate oldfellow—retained the longest straw. Bland's hand shook as he comparednotes with his companion. There was a moment's pause, during which the blankeyeballs of the blind man fiercely searched the gloom, as if in that awfulmoment they could penetrate it.

"I hold the shortest," said Dawes to Bland. "'Tis you that must do it."

"I'm glad of that," said Mooney.

Bland, seemingly terrified at the danger which fate had decreed that heshould run, tore the fatal lot into fragments with an oath, and sat gnawing hisknuckles in excess of abject terror. Mooney stretched himself out upon hisplank-bed. "Come on, mate," he said. Bland extended a shaking hand, and caughtRufus Dawes by the sleeve.

"You have more nerve than I. You do it."

"No, no," said Dawes, almost as pale as his companion. "I've run my chancefairly. 'Twas your own proposal." The coward who, confident in his own luck,would seem to have fallen into the pit he had dug for others, sat rockinghimself to and fro, holding his head in his hands.

"By Heaven, I can't do it," he whispered, lifting a white, wet face.

"What are you waiting for?" said fortunate Mooney. "Come on, I'm ready."

"I—I—thought you might like to—to—pray a bit," saidBland.

The notion seemed to sober the senses of the old man, exalted too fiercelyby his good fortune.

"Ay!" he said. "Pray! A good thought!" and he knelt down; and shutting hisblind eyes—'twas as though he was dazzled by some stronglight—unseen by his comrades, moved his lips silently. The silence was atlast broken by the footsteps of the warder in the corridor. Bland hailed it asa reprieve from whatever act of daring he dreaded. "We must wait until hegoes," he whispered eagerly. "He might look in."

Dawes nodded, and Mooney, whose quick ear apprised him very exactly of theposition of the approaching gaoler, rose from his knees radiant. The sour faceof Gimblett appeared at the trap cell-door.

"All right?" he asked, somewhat—so the three thought—less sourlythan usual.

"All right," was the reply, and Mooney added, "Good-night, Mr.Gimblett."

"I wonder what is making the old man so cheerful," thought Gimblett, as hegot into the next corridor.

The sound of his echoing footsteps had scarcely died away, when upon theears of the two less fortunate casters of lots fell the dull sound of rendingwoollen. The lucky man was tearing a strip from his blanket. "I think this willdo," said he, pulling it between his hands to test its strength. "I am an oldman." It was possible that he debated concerning the descent of some abyss intowhich the strip of blanket was to lower him. "Here, Bland, catch hold. Whereare ye?—don't be faint-hearted, man. It won't take ye long."

It was quite dark now in the cell, but as Bland advanced his face was like awhite mask floating upon the darkness, it was so ghastly pale. Dawes pressedhis lucky comrade's hand, and withdrew to the farthest corner. Bland and Mooneywere for a few moments occupied with the rope—doubtless preparing forescape by means of it. The silence was broken only by the convulsive janglingof Bland's irons—he was shuddering violently. At last Mooney spoke again,in strangely soft and subdued tones.

"Dawes, lad, do you think there is a Heaven?"

"I know there is a Hell," said Dawes, without turning his face.

"Ay, and a Heaven, lad. I think I shall go there. You will, old chap, foryou've been good to me—God bless you, you've been very good to me."

*

When Troke came in the morning he saw what had occurred at a glance, andhastened to remove the corpse of the strangled Mooney.

"We drew lots," said Rufus Dawes, pointing to Bland, who crouched in thecorner farthest from his victim, "and it fell upon him to do it. I'm thewitness."

"They'll hang you for all that," said Troke.

"I hope so," said Rufus Dawes.

The scheme of escape hit upon by the convict intellect was simply this.Three men being together, lots were drawn to determine whom should be murdered.The drawer of the longest straw was the "lucky" man. He was killed. The drawerof the next longest straw was the murderer. He was hanged. The unlucky one wasthe witness. He had, of course, an excellent chance of being hung also, but hisdoom was not so certain, and he therefore looked upon himself asunfortunate.

CHAPTER X. A MEETING.

John Rex found the "George" disagreeably prepared for his august arrival.Obsequious waiters took his dressing-bag and overcoat, the landlord himselfwelcomed him at the door. Two naval gentlemen came out of the coffee-room tostare at him. "Have you any more luggage, Mr. Devine?" asked the landlord, ashe flung open the door of the best drawing-room. It was awkwardly evident thathis wife had no notion of suffering him to hide his borrowed light under abushel.

A supper-table laid for two people gleamed bright from the cheeriest corner.A fire crackled beneath the marble mantelshelf. The latest evening paper layupon a chair; and, brushing it carelessly with her costly dress, the woman hehad so basely deserted came smiling to meet him.

"Well, Mr. Richard Devine," said she, "you did not expect to see me again,did you?"

Although, on his journey down, he had composed an elaborate speech wherewithto greet her, this unnatural civility dumbfounded him. "Sarah! I never meantto—"

"Hush, my dear Richard—it must be Richard now, I suppose. This is notthe time for explanations. Besides, the waiter might hear you. Let us have somesupper; you must be hungry, I am sure." He advanced to the table mechanically."But how fat you are!" she continued. "Too good living, I suppose. You were notso fat at Port Ar—-Oh, I forgot, my dear! Come and sit down. That'sright. I have told them all that I am your wife, for whom you have sent. Theyregard me with some interest and respect in consequence. Don't spoil their goodopinion of me."

He was about to utter an imprecation, but she stopped him by a glance. "Nobad language, John, or I shall ring for a constable. Let us understand oneanother, my dear. You may be a very great man to other people, but to me youare merely my runaway husband—an escaped convict. If you don't eat yoursupper civilly, I shall send for the police."

"Sarah!" he burst out, "I never meant to desert you. Upon my word. It is alla mistake. Let me explain."

"There is no need for explanations yet, Jack—I mean Richard. Have yoursupper. Ah! I know what you want."

She poured out half a tumbler of brandy, and gave it to him. He took theglass from her hand, drank the contents, and then, as though warmed by thespirit, laughed. "What a woman you are, Sarah. I have been a great brute, Iconfess."

"You have been an ungrateful villain," said she, with sudden passion, "ahardened, selfish villain."

"But, Sarah—"

"Don't touch me!" "'Pon my word, you are a fine creature, and I was a foolto leave you." The compliment seemed to soothe her, for her tone changedsomewhat. "It was a wicked, cruel act, Jack. You whom I saved fromdeath—whom I nursed—whom I enriched. It was the act of acoward."

"I admit it. It was." "You admit it. Have you no shame then? Have you nopity for me for what I have suffered all these years?"

"I don't suppose you cared much."

"Don't you? You never thought about me at all. I have cared this much, JohnRex—bah! the door is shut close enough—that I have spent a fortunein hunting you down; and now I have found you, I will make you suffer in yourturn."

He laughed again, but uneasily. "How did you discover me?"

With a readiness which showed that she had already prepared an answer to thequestion, she unlocked a writing-case, which was on the side table, and tookfrom it a newspaper. "By one of those strange accidents which are the ruin ofmen like you. Among the papers sent to the overseer from his English friendswas this one."

She held out an illustrated journal—a Sunday organ of sportingopinion—and pointed to a portrait engraved on the centre page. Itrepresented a broad-shouldered, bearded man, dressed in the fashion affected byturfites and lovers of horse-flesh, standing beside a pedestal on which werepiled a variety of racing cups and trophies. John Rex read underneath this workof art the name,

"And you recognized me?"

"The portrait was sufficiently like you to induce me to make inquiries, andwhen I found that Mr. Richard Devine had suddenly returned from a mysteriousabsence of fourteen years, I set to work in earnest. I have spent a deal ofmoney, Jack, but I've got you!"

"You have been clever in finding me out; I give you credit for that."

"There is not a single act of your life, John Rex, that I do not know," shecontinued, with heat. "I have traced you from the day you stole out of my houseuntil now. I know your continental trips, your journeyings here and there insearch of a lost clue. I pieced together the puzzle, as you have done, and Iknow that, by some foul fortune, you have stolen the secret of a dead man toruin an innocent and virtuous family."

"Hullo! hullo!" said John Rex. "Since when have you learnt to talk ofvirtue?"

"It is well to taunt, but you have got to the end of your tether now, Jack.I have communicated with the woman whose son's fortune you have stolen. Iexpect to hear from Lady Devine in a day or so."

"Well—and when you hear?"

"I shall give back the fortune at the price of her silence!"

"Ho! ho! Will you?"

"Yes; and if my husband does not come back and live with me quietly, I shallcall the police."

John Rex sprang up. "Who will believe you, idiot?" he cried. "I'll have yousent to gaol as an impostor."

"You forget, my dear," she returned, playing coquettishly with her rings,and glancing sideways as she spoke, "that you have already acknowledged me asyour wife before the landlord and the servants. It is too late for that sort ofthing. Oh, my dear Jack, you think you are very clever, but I am as clever asyou."

Smothering a curse, he sat down beside her. "Listen, Sarah. What is the useof fighting like a couple of children. I am rich—"

"So am I." "Well, so much the better. We will join our riches together. Iadmit that I was a fool and a cur to leave you; but I played for a great stake.The name of Richard Devine was worth nearly half a million in money. It ismine. I won it. Share it with me! Sarah, you and I defied the world years ago.Don't let us quarrel now. I was ungrateful. Forget it. We know by this timethat we are not either of us angels. We started in life together—do youremember, Sally, when I met you first?—determined to make money. We havesucceeded. Why then set to work to destroy each other? You are handsomer thanever, I have not lost my wits. Is there any need for you to tell the world thatI am a runaway convict, and that you are—well, no, of course there is noneed. Kiss and be friends, Sarah. I would have escaped you if I could, I admit.You have found me out. I accept the position. You claim me as your husband. Yousay you are Mrs. Richard Devine. Very well, I admit it. You have all your lifewanted to be a great lady. Now is your chance!" Much as she had cause to hatehim, well as she knew his treacherous and ungrateful character, little as shehad reason to trust him, her strange and distempered affection for thescoundrel came upon her again with gathering strength. As she sat beside him,listening to the familiar tones of the voice she had learned to love, greedilydrinking in the promise of a future fidelity which she was well aware was madebut to be broken, her memory recalled the past days of trust and happiness, andher woman's fancy once more invested the selfish villain she had reclaimed withthose attributes which had enchained her wilful and wayward affections. Theunselfish devotion which had marked her conduct to the swindler and convictwas, indeed, her one redeeming virtue; and perhaps she felt dimly—poorwoman—that it were better for her to cling to that, if she lost all theworld beside. Her wish for vengeance melted under the influence of thesethoughts. The bitterness of despised love, the shame and anger of desertion,ingratitude, and betrayal, all vanished. The tears of a sweet forgivenesstrembled in her eyes, the unreasoning love of her sex—faithful to noughtbut love, and faithful to love in death—shook in her voice. She took hiscoward hand and kissed it, pardoning all his baseness with the sole reproach,"Oh, John, John, you might have trusted me after all?"

John Rex had conquered, and he smiled as he embraced her. "I wish I had,"said he; "it would have saved me many regrets; but never mind. Sit down; now wewill have supper."

"Your preference has one drawback, Sarah," he said, when the meal wasconcluded, and the two sat down to consider their immediate course of action,"it doubles the chance of detection."

"How so?"

"People have accepted me without inquiry, but I am afraid not withoutdislike. Mr. Francis Wade, my uncle, never liked me; and I fear I have notplayed my cards well with Lady Devine. When they find I have a mysterious wifetheir dislike will become suspicion. Is it likely that I should have beenmarried all these years and not have informed them?"

"Very unlikely," returned Sarah calmly, "and that is just the reason why youhave not been married all these years. Really," she added, with a laugh, "themale intellect is very dull. You have already told ten thousand lies about thisaffair, and yet you don't see your way to tell one more."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, my dear Richard, you surely cannot have forgotten that you married melast year on the Continent? By the way, it was last year that you were there,was it not? I am the daughter of a poor clergyman of the Church of England;name—anything you please—and you met me—where shall we say?Baden, Aix, Brussels? Cross the Alps, if you like, dear, and say Rome." JohnRex put his hand to his head. "Of course—I am stupid," said he. "I havenot been well lately. Too much brandy, I suppose."

"Well, we will alter all that," she returned with a laugh, which her anxiousglance at him belied. "You are going to be domestic now, Jack—I meanDick."

"Go on," said he impatiently. "What then?"

"Then, having settled these little preliminaries, you take me up to Londonand introduce me to your relatives and friends."

He started. "A bold game."

"Bold! Nonsense! The only safe one. People don't, as a rule, suspect unlessone is mysterious. You must do it; I have arranged for your doing it. Thewaiters here all know me as your wife. There is not the leastdanger—unless, indeed, you are married already?" she added, with a quickand angry suspicion.

"You need not be alarmed. I was not such a fool as to marry another womanwhile you were alive—had I even seen one I would have cared to marry. Butwhat of Lady Devine? You say you have told her."

"I have told her to communicate with Mrs. Carr, Post Office, Torquay, inorder to hear something to her advantage. If you had been rebellious, John, the'something' would have been a letter from me telling her who you really are.Now you have proved obedient, the 'something' will be a begging letter of asort which she has already received hundreds, and which in all probability shewill not even answer. What do you think of that, Mr. Richard Devine?"

"You deserve success, Sarah," said the old schemer, in genuine admiration."By Jove, this is something like the old days, when we were Mr. and Mrs.Crofton."

"Or Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, eh, John?" she said, with as much tenderness inher voice as though she had been a virtuous matron recalling her honeymoon."That was an unlucky name, wasn't it, dear? You should have taken my advicethere." And immersed in recollection of their past rogueries, the worthy pairpensively smiled. Rex was the first to awake from that pleasant reverie.

"I will be guided by you, then," he said. "What next?"

"Next—for, as you say, my presence doubles the danger—we willcontrive to withdraw quietly from England. The introduction to your motherover, and Mr. Francis disposed of, we will go to Hampstead, and live there fora while. During that time you must turn into cash as much property as you dare.We will then go abroad for the 'season'—and stop there. After a year orso on the Continent you can write to our agent to sell more property; and,finally, when we are regarded as permanent absentees—and three or fouryears will bring that about—we will get rid of everything, and slip overto America. Then you can endow a charity if you like, or build a church to thememory of the man you have displaced."

John Rex burst into a laugh. "An excellent plan. I like the idea of thecharity—the Devine Hospital, eh?"

"By the way, how did you find out the particulars of this man's life. He wasburned in the Hydaspes, wasn't he?"

"No," said Rex, with an air of pride. "He was transported in the Malabarunder the name of Rufus Dawes. You remember him. It is a long story. Theparticulars weren't numerous, and if the old lady had been half sharp she wouldhave bowled me out. But the fact was she wanted to find the fellow alive, andwas willing to take a good deal on trust. I'll tell you all about it anothertime. I think I'll go to bed now; I'm tired, and my head aches as though itwould split."

"Then it is decided that you follow my directions?"

"Yes."

She rose and placed her hand on the bell. "What are you going to do?" hesaid uneasily.

"I am going to do nothing. You are going to telegraph to your servants tohave the house in London prepared for your wife, who will return with you theday after to-morrow."

John Rex stayed her hand with a sudden angry gesture. "This is all devilishfine," he said, "but suppose it fails?"

"That is your affair, John. You need not go on with this business at all,unless you like. I had rather you didn't."

"What the deuce am I to do, then?"

"I am not as rich as you are, but, with my station and so on, I am worthseven thousand a year. Come back to Australia with me, and let these poorpeople enjoy their own again. Ah, John, it is the best thing to do, believe me.We can afford to be honest now."

"A fine scheme!" cried he. "Give up half a million of money, and go back toAustralia! You must be mad!"

"Then telegraph."

"But, my dear—"

"Hush, here's the waiter."

As he wrote, John Rex felt gloomily that, though he had succeeded inrecalling her affection, that affection was as imperious as of yore.

CHAPTER XI. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

December 7th.—I have made up my mind to leave this place, to burymyself again in the bush, I suppose, and await extinction. I try to think thatthe reason for this determination is the frightful condition of misery existingamong the prisoners; that because I am daily horrified and sickened by scenesof torture and infamy, I decide to go away; that, feeling myself powerless tosave others, I wish to spare myself. But in this journal, in which I bindmyself to write nothing but truth, I am forced to confess that these are notthe reasons. I will write the reason plainly: "I covet my neighbour's wife." Itdoes not look well thus written. It looks hideous. In my own breast I findnumberless excuses for my passion. I said to myself, "My neighbour does notlove his wife, and her unloved life is misery. She is forced to live in thefrightful seclusion of this accursed island, and she is dying for want ofcompanionship. She feels that I understand and appreciate her, that I couldlove her as she deserves, that I could render her happy. I feel that I have metthe only woman who has power to touch my heart, to hold me back from the ruininto which I am about to plunge, to make me useful to my fellows—a man,and not a drunkard." Whispering these conclusions to myself, I am urged tobrave public opinion, and make two lives happy. I say to myself, or rather mydesires say to me—"What sin is there in this? Adultery? No; for amarriage without love is the coarsest of all adulteries. What tie binds a manand woman together—that formula of license pronounced by the priest,which the law has recognized as a 'legal bond'? Surely not this only, formarriage is but a partnership—a contract of mutual fidelity—and inall contracts the violation of the terms of the agreement by one of thecontracting persons absolves the other. Mrs. Frere is then absolved, by herhusband's act. I cannot but think so. But is she willing to risk the shame ofdivorce or legal offence? Perhaps. Is she fitted by temperament to bear such aburden of contumely as must needs fall upon her? Will she not feel disgust atthe man who entrapped her into shame? Do not the comforts which surround hercompensate for the lack of affections?" And so the torturing catechismcontinues, until I am driven mad with doubt, love, and despair.

Of course I am wrong; of course I outrage my character as a priest; ofcourse I endanger—according to the creed I teach—my soul and hers.But priests, unluckily, have hearts and passions as well as other men. ThankGod, as yet, I have never expressed my madness in words. What a fate is mine!When I am in her presence I am in torment; when I am absent from her myimagination pictures her surrounded by a thousand graces that are not hers, butbelong to all the women of my dreams—to Helen, to Juliet, to Rosalind.Fools that we are of our own senses! When I think of her I blush; when I hearher name my heart leaps, and I grow pale. Love! What is the love of two puresouls, scarce conscious of the Paradise into which they have fallen, to thismaddening delirium? I can understand the poison of Circe's cup; it is thesweet-torment of a forbidden love like mine! Away gross materialism, in which Ihave so long schooled myself! I, who laughed at passion as the outcome oftemperament and easy living—I, who thought in my intellect, to sound allthe depths and shoals of human feeling—I, who analysed my ownsoul—scoffed at my own yearnings for an immortality—am forced todeify the senseless power of my creed, and believe in God, that I may pray toHim. I know now why men reject the cold impersonality that reason tells usrules the world—it is because they love. To die, and be no more; to die,and rendered into dust, be blown about the earth; to die and leave our lovedefenceless and forlorn, till the bright soul that smiled to ours is smotheredin the earth that made it! No! To love is life eternal. God, I believe in Thee!Aid me! Pity me! Sinful wretch that I am, to have denied Thee! See me on myknees before Thee! Pity me, or let me die!

December 9th.—I have been visiting the two condemned prisoners, Dawesand Bland, and praying with them. O Lord, let me save one soul that may pleadwith Thee for mine! Let me draw one being alive out of this pit! I weep—Iweary Thee with my prayers, O Lord! Look down upon me. Grant me a sign. Thoudidst it in old times to men who were not more fervent in their supplicationsthan am I. So says Thy Book. Thy Book which I believe—which I believe.Grant me a sign—one little sign, O Lord!—I will not see her. I havesworn it. Thou knowest my grief—my agony—my despair. Thou knowestwhy I love her. Thou knowest how I strive to make her hate me. Is that not asacrifice? I am so lonely—a lonely man, with but one creature that heloves—yet, what is mortal love to Thee? Cruel and implacable, Thousittest in the heavens men have built for Thee, and scornest them! Will not allthe burnings and slaughters of the saints appease Thee? Art Thou not sated withblood and tears, O God of vengeance, of wrath, and of despair! Kind Christ,pity me. Thou wilt—for Thou wast human! Blessed Saviour, at whose feetknelt the Magdalen! Divinity, who, most divine in Thy despair, called on Thycruel God to save Thee—by the memory of that moment when Thou didst deemThyself forsaken—forsake not me! Sweet Christ, have mercy on Thy sinfulservant.

I can write no more. I will pray to Thee with my lips. I will shriek mysupplications to Thee. I will call upon Thee so loud that all the world shallhear me, and wonder at Thy silence—unjust and unmerciful God!

December 14th.—What blasphemies are these which I have uttered in mydespair? Horrible madness that has left me prostrate, to what heights of frenzydidst thou not drive my soul! Like him of old time, who wandered among thetombs, shrieking and tearing himself, I have been possessed by a devil. For aweek I have been unconscious of aught save torture. I have gone about my dailyduties as one who in his dreams repeats the accustomed action of the day, andknows it not. Men have looked at me strangely. They look at me strangely now.Can it be that my disease of drunkenness has become the disease of insanity? AmI mad, or do I but verge on madness? O Lord, whom in my agonies I haveconfessed, leave me my intellect—let me not become a drivelling spectaclefor the curious to point at or to pity! At least, in mercy, spare me a little.Let not my punishment overtake me here. Let her memories of me be clouded witha sense of my rudeness or my brutality; let me for ever seem to her theungrateful ruffian I strive to show myself—but let her not beholdme—that!

CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF Mr. NORTH.

On or about the 8th of December, Mrs. Frere noticed a sudden andunaccountable change in the manner of the chaplain. He came to her oneafternoon, and, after talking for some time, in a vague and unconnected manner,about the miseries of the prison and the wretched condition of some of theprisoners, began to question her abruptly concerning Rufus Dawes.

"I do not wish to think of him," said she, with a shudder. "I have thestrangest, the most horrible dreams about him. He is a bad man. He tried tomurder me when a child, and had it not been for my husband, he would have doneso. I have only seen him once since then—at Hobart Town, when he wastaken." "He sometimes speaks to me of you," said North, eyeing her. "He askedme once to give him a rose plucked in your garden."

Sylvia turned pale. "And you gave it him?"

"Yes, I gave it him. Why not?"

"It was valueless, of course, but still—to a convict?"

"You are not angry?"

"Oh, no! Why should I be angry?" she laughed constrainedly. "It was astrange fancy for the man to have, that's all."

"I suppose you would not give me another rose, if I asked you."

"Why not?" said she, turning away uneasily. "You? You are a gentleman."

"Not I—you don't know me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it would be better for you if you had never seen me."

"Mr. North!" Terrified at the wild gleam in his eyes, she had risen hastily."You are talking very strangely."

"Oh, don't be alarmed, madam. I am not drunk!"—he pronounced the wordwith a fierce energy. "I had better leave you. Indeed, I think the less we seeof each other the better."

Deeply wounded and astonished at this extraordinary outburst, Sylvia allowedhim to stride away without a word. She saw him pass through the garden and slamthe little gate, but she did not see the agony on his face, or the passionategesture with which—when out of eyeshot—he lamented the voluntaryabasem*nt of himself before her. She thought over his conduct with growingfear. It was not possible that he was intoxicated—such a vice was thelast one of which she could have believed him guilty. It was more probable thatsome effects of the fever, which had recently confined him to his house, yetlingered. So she thought; and, thinking, was alarmed to realize of how muchimportance the well-being of this man was to her.

The next day he met her, and, bowing, passed swiftly. This pained her. Couldshe have offended him by some unlucky word? She made Maurice ask him to dinner,and, to her astonishment, he pleaded illness as an excuse for not coming. Herpride was hurt, and she sent him back his books and music. A curiosity that wasunworthy of her compelled her to ask the servant who carried the parcel whatthe clergyman had said. "He said nothing—only laughed." Laughed! In scornof her foolishness! His conduct was ungentlemanly and intemperate. She wouldforget, as speedily as possible, that such a being had ever existed. Thisresolution taken, she was unusually patient with her husband.

So a week passed, and Mr. North did not return. Unluckily for the poorwretch, the very self-sacrifice he had made brought about the precise conditionof things which he was desirous to avoid. It is possible that, had theacquaintance between them continued on the same staid footing, it would havefollowed the lot of most acquaintanceships of the kind—othercirc*mstances and other scenes might have wiped out the memory of all butcommon civilities between them, and Sylvia might never have discovered that shehad for the chaplain any other feeling but that of esteem. But the very fact ofthe sudden wrenching away of her soul-companion, showed her how barren was thesolitary life to which she had been fated. Her husband, she had long agoadmitted, with bitter self-communings, was utterly unsuited to her. She couldfind in his society no enjoyment, and for the sympathy which she needed wascompelled to turn elsewhere. She understood that his love for her had burntit*elf out—she confessed, with intensity of self-degradation, that hisapparent affection had been born of sensuality, and had perished in the firesit had itself kindled. Many women have, unhappily, made some such discovery asthis, but for most women there is some distracting occupation. Had it beenSylvia's fate to live in the midst of fashion and society, she would have foundrelief in the conversation of the witty, or the homage of the distinguished.Had fortune cast her lot in a city, Mrs. Frere might have become one of thosecharming women who collect around their supper-tables whatever of maleintellect is obtainable, and who find the husband admirably useful to open hisown champagne bottles. The celebrated women who have stepped out of theirdomestic circles to enchant or astonish the world, have almost invariably beencursed with unhappy homes. But poor Sylvia was not destined to this fortune.Cast back upon herself, she found no surcease of pain in her own imaginings,and meeting with a man sufficiently her elder to encourage her to talk, andsufficiently clever to induce her to seek his society and his advice, shelearnt, for the first time, to forget her own griefs; for the first time shesuffered her nature to expand under the sun of a congenial influence. This sun,suddenly withdrawn, her soul, grown accustomed to the warmth and light,shivered at the gloom, and she looked about her in dismay at the dull andbarren prospect of life which lay before her. In a word, she found that thesociety of North had become so far necessary to her that to be deprived of itwas a grief—notwithstanding that her husband remained to console her.

After a week of such reflections, the barrenness of life grew insupportableto her, and one day she came to Maurice and begged to be sent back to HobartTown. "I cannot live in this horrible island," she said. "I am getting ill. Letme go to my father for a few months, Maurice." Maurice consented. His wife waslooking ill, and Major Vickers was an old man—a rich old man—wholoved his only daughter. It was not undesirable that Mrs. Frere should visither father; indeed, so little sympathy was there between the pair that, thefirst astonishment over, Maurice felt rather glad to get rid of her for awhile. "You can go back in the Lady Franklin if you like, my dear," he said. "Iexpect her every day." At this decision—much to his surprise—shekissed him with more show of affection than she had manifested since the deathof her child.

The news of the approaching departure became known, but still North did notmake his appearance. Had it not been a step beneath the dignity of a woman,Mrs. Frere would have gone herself and asked him the meaning of hisunaccountable rudeness, but there was just sufficient morbidity in the sympathyshe had for him to restrain her from an act which a young girl—though notmore innocent—would have dared without hesitation. Calling one day uponthe wife of the surgeon, however, she met the chaplain face to face, and withthe consummate art of acting which most women possess, rallied him upon hisabsence from her house. The behaviour of the poor devil, thus stabbed to theheart, was curious. He forgot gentlemanly behaviour and the respect due to awoman, flung one despairingly angry glance at her and abruptly retired. Sylviaflushed crimson, and endeavoured to excuse North on account of his recentillness. The surgeon's wife looked askance, and turned the conversation. Thenext time Sylvia bowed to this lady, she got a chilling salute in return thatmade her blood boil. "I wonder how I have offended Mrs. Field?" she askedMaurice. "She almost cut me to-day." "Oh, the old cat!" returned Maurice. "Whatdoes it matter if she did?" However, a few days afterwards, it seemed that itdid matter, for Maurice called upon Field and conversed seriously with him. Theissue of the conversation being reported to Mrs. Frere, the lady wept indignanttears of wounded pride and shame. It appeared that North had watched her out ofthe house, returned, and related—in a "stumbling, hesitating way", Mrs.Field said—how he disliked Mrs. Frere, how he did not want to visit her,and how flighty and reprehensible such conduct was in a married woman of herrank and station. This act of baseness—or profoundnobleness—achieved its purpose. Sylvia noticed the unhappy priest nomore. Between the Commandant and the chaplain now arose a coolness, and Frereset himself, by various petty tyrannies, to disgust North, and compel him to aresignation of his office. The convict-gaolers speedily marked the differencein the treatment of the chaplain, and their demeanour changed. For respect wassubstituted insolence; for alacrity, sullenness; for prompt obedience,impertinent intrusion. The men whom North favoured were selected as specialsubjects for harshness, and for a prisoner to be seen talking to the clergymanwas sufficient to ensure for him a series of tyrannies. The result of this wasthat North saw the souls he laboured to save slipping back into the gulf;beheld the men he had half won to love him meet him with averted faces;discovered that to show interest in a prisoner was to injure him, not to servehim. The unhappy man grew thinner and paler under this ingenious torment. Hehad deprived himself of that love which, guilty though it might be, was,nevertheless, the only true love he had known; and he found that, having wonthis victory, he had gained the hatred of all living creatures with whom hecame in contact. The authority of the Commandant was so supreme that men livedbut by the breath of his nostrils. To offend him was to perish and the man whomthe Commandant hated must be hated also by all those who wished to exist inpeace. There was but one being who was not to be turned from hisallegiance—the convict murderer, Rufus Dawes, who awaited death. For manydays he had remained mute, broken down beneath his weight of sorrow or ofsullenness; but North, bereft of other love and sympathy, strove with thatfighting soul, if haply he might win it back to peace. It seemed to the fancyof the priest—a fancy distempered, perhaps, by excess, or superhumanlyexalted by mental agony—that this convict, over whom he had wept, wasgiven to him as a hostage for his own salvation. "I must save him or perish,"he said. "I must save him, though I redeem him with my own blood."

Frere, unable to comprehend the reason of the calmness with which the doomedfelon met his taunts and torments, thought that he was shamming piety to gainsome indulgence of meat and drink, and redoubled his severity. He ordered Dawesto be taken out to work just before the hour at which the chaplain wasaccustomed to visit him. He pretended that the man was "dangerous", anddirected a gaoler to be present at all interviews, "lest the chaplain might bemurdered". He issued an order that all civil officers should obey thechallenges of convicts acting as watchmen; and North, coming to pray with hispenitent, would be stopped ten times by grinning felons, who, putting theirfaces within a foot of his, would roar out, "Who goes there?" and burst outlaughing at the reply. Under pretence of watching more carefully over theproperty of the chaplain, he directed that any convict, acting as constable,might at any time "search everywhere and anywhere" for property supposed to bein the possession of a prisoner. The chaplain's servant was a prisoner, ofcourse; and North's drawers were ransacked twice in one week by Troke. Northmet these impertinences with unruffled brow, and Frere could in no way accountfor his obstinacy, until the arrival of the Lady Franklin explained thechaplain's apparent coolness. He had sent in his resignation two months before,and the saintly Meekin had been appointed in his stead. Frere, unable to attackthe clergyman, and indignant at the manner in which he had been defeated,revenged himself upon Rufus Dawes.

CHAPTER XIII. MR. NORTH SPEAKS.

The method and manner of Frere's revenge became a subject of whisperedconversation on the island. It was reported that North had been forbidden tovisit the convict, but that he had refused to accept the prohibition, and by athreat of what he would do when the returning vessel had landed him in HobartTown, had compelled the Commandant to withdraw his order. The Commandant,however, speedily discovered in Rufus Dawes signs of insubordination, and setto work again to reduce still further the "spirit" he had so ingeniously"broken". The unhappy convict was deprived of food, was kept awake at nights,was put to the hardest labour, was loaded with the heaviest irons. Troke, withdevilish malice, suggested that, if the tortured wretch would decline to seethe chaplain, some amelioration of his condition might be effected; but hissuggestions were in vain. Fully believing that his death was certain, Dawesclung to North as the saviour of his agonized soul, and rejected all suchinsidious overtures. Enraged at this obstinacy, Frere sentenced his victim tothe "spread eagle" and the "stretcher".

Now the rumour of the obduracy of this undaunted convict who had beenrecalled to her by the clergyman at their strange interview, had reachedSylvia's ears. She had heard gloomy hints of the punishments inflicted on himby her husband's order, and as—constantly revolving in her mind was thatlast conversation with the chaplain—she wondered at the prisoner'sstrange fancy for a flower, her brain began to thrill with those undefined anddreadful memories which had haunted her childhood. What was the link betweenher and this murderous villain? How came it that she felt at times so strange asympathy for his fate, and that he—who had attempted herlife—cherished so tender a remembrance of her as to beg for a flowerwhich her hand had touched?

She questioned her husband concerning the convict's misdoings, but with thepetulant brutality which he invariably displayed when the name of Rufus Dawesintruded itself into their conversation, Maurice Frere harshly refused tosatisfy her. This but raised her curiosity higher. She reflected how bitter hehad always seemed against this man—she remembered how, in the garden atHobart Town, the hunted wretch had caught her dress with words of assuredconfidence—she recollected the fragment of cloth he passionately flungfrom him, and which her affianced lover had contemptuously tossed into thestream. The name of "Dawes", detested as it had become to her, bore yet somestrange association of comfort and hope. What secret lurked behind the twilightthat had fallen upon her childish memories? Deprived of the advice ofNorth—to whom, a few weeks back, she would have confided hermisgivings—she resolved upon a project that, for her, was mostdistasteful. She would herself visit the gaol and judge how far the rumours ofher husband's cruelty were worthy of credit.

One sultry afternoon, when the Commandant had gone on a visit of inspection,Troke, lounging at the door of the New Prison, beheld, with surprise, thefigure of the Commandant's lady.

"What is it, mam?" he asked, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

"I want to see the prisoner Dawes."

Troke's jaw fell.

"See Dawes?" he repeated.

"Yes. Where is he?"

Troke was preparing a lie. The imperious voice, and the clear, steady gaze,confused him.

"He's here."

"Let me see him."

"He's—he's under punishment, mam."

"What do you mean? Are they flogging him?"

"No; but he's dangerous, mam. The Commandant—"

"Do you mean to open the door or not, Mr. Troke?"

Troke grew more confused. It was evident that he was most unwilling to openthe door. "The Commandant has given strict orders—"

"Do you wish me to complain to the Commandant?" cries Sylvia, with a touchof her old spirit, and jumped hastily at the conclusion that the gaolers were,perhaps, torturing the convict for their own entertainment. "Open the door atonce!—at once!"

Thus commanded, Troke, with a hasty growl of its "being no affair of his,and he hoped Mrs. Frere would tell the captain how it happened" flung open thedoor of a cell on the right hand of the doorway. It was so dark that, at first,Sylvia could distinguish nothing but the outline of a framework, with somethingstretched upon it that resembled a human body. Her first thought was that theman was dead, but this was not so—he groaned. Her eyes, accustomingthemselves to the gloom, began to see what the "punishment" was. Upon the floorwas placed an iron frame about six feet long, and two and a half feet wide,with round iron bars, placed transversely, about twelve inches apart. The manshe came to seek was bound in a horizontal position upon this frame, with hisneck projecting over the end of it. If he allowed his head to hang, the bloodrushed to his brain, and suffocated him, while the effort to keep it raisedstrained every muscle to agony pitch. His face was purple, and he foamed at themouth. Sylvia uttered a cry. "This is no punishment; it's murder! Who orderedthis?"

"The Commandant," said Troke sullenly.

"I don't believe it. Loose him!"

"I daren't mam," said Troke.

"Loose him, I say! Hailey!—you, sir, there!" The noise had broughtseveral warders to the spot. "Do you hear me? Do you know who I am? Loose him,I say!" In her eagerness and compassion she was on her knees by the side of theinfernal machine, plucking at the ropes with her delicate fingers. "Wretches,you have cut his flesh! He is dying! Help! You have killed him!" The prisoner,in fact, seeing this angel of mercy stooping over him, and hearing close to himthe tones of a voice that for seven years he had heard but in his dreams, hadfainted. Troke and Hailey, alarmed by her vehemence, dragged the stretcher outinto the light, and hastily cut the lashings. Dawes rolled off like a log, andhis head fell against Mrs. Frere. Troke roughly pulled him aside, and calledfor water. Sylvia, trembling with sympathy and pale with passion, turned uponthe crew. "How long has he been like this?"

"An hour," said Troke.

"A lie!" said a stern voice at the door. "He has been there nine hours!"

"Wretches!" cried Sylvia, "you shall hear more of this. Oh, oh! I amsick!"—she felt for the wall—"I—I—" North watched herwith agony on his face, but did not move. "I faint. I—"—she uttereda despairing cry that was not without a touch of anger. "Mr. North! do you notsee? Oh! Take me home—take me home!" and she would have fallen across thebody of the tortured prisoner had not North caught her in his arms.

Rufus Dawes, awaking from his stupor, saw, in the midst of a sunbeam whichpenetrated a window in the corridor, the woman who came to save his bodysupported by the priest who came to save his soul; and staggering to his knees,he stretched out his hands with a hoarse cry. Perhaps something in the actionbrought back to the dimmed remembrance of the Commandant's wife the image of asimilar figure stretching forth its hands to a frightened child in themysterious far-off time. She started, and pushing back her hair, bent awistful, terrified gaze upon the face of the kneeling man, as though she wouldfain read there an explanation of the shadowy memory which haunted her. It ispossible that she would have spoken, but North—thinking the excitementhad produced one of those hysterical crises which were common toher—gently drew her, still gazing, back towards the gate. The convict'sarms fell, and an undefinable presentiment of evil chilled him as he beheld thepriest—emotion pallid in his cheeks—slowly draw the fair youngcreature from out the sunlight into the grim shadow of the heavy archway. Foran instant the gloom swallowed them, and it seemed to Dawes that the strangewild man of God had in that instant become a man of Evil—blighting thebrightness and the beauty of the innocence that clung to him. For aninstant—and then they passed out of the prison archway into the free airof heaven—and the sunlight glowed golden on their faces.

"You are ill," said North. "You will faint. Why do you look so wildly?"

"What is it?" she whispered, more in answer to her own thoughts than to hisquestion—"what is it that links me to that man? What deed—whatterror—what memory? I tremble with crowding thoughts, that die ere theycan whisper to me. Oh, that prison!"

"Look up; we are in the sunshine."

She passed her hand across her brow, sighing heavily, as one awaking from adisturbed slumber—shuddered, and withdrew her arm from his. Northinterpreted the action correctly, and the blood rushed to his face. "Pardon me,you cannot walk alone; you will fall. I will leave you at the gate."

In truth she would have fallen had he not again assisted her. She turnedupon him eyes whose reproachful sorrow had almost forced him to a confession,but he bowed his head and held silence. They reached the house, and he placedher tenderly in a chair. "Now you are safe, madam, I will leave you."

She burst into tears. "Why do you treat me thus, Mr. North? What have I doneto make you hate me?"

"Hate you!" said North, with trembling lips. "Oh, no, I do not—do nothate you. I am rude in my speech, abrupt in my manner. You must forget it,and—and me." A horse's feet crashed upon the gravel, and an instant afterMaurice Frere burst into the room. Returning from the Cascades, he had metTroke, and learned the release of the prisoner. Furious at this usurpation ofauthority by his wife, his self-esteem wounded by the thought that she hadwitnessed his mean revenge upon the man he had so infamously wronged, and hisnatural brutality enhanced by brandy, he had made for the house at full gallop,determined to assert his authority. Blind with rage, he saw no one but hiswife. "What the devil's this I hear? You have been meddling in my business! Yourelease prisoners! You—"

"Captain Frere!" said North, stepping forward to assert the restrainingpresence of a stranger. Frere started, astonished at the intrusion of thechaplain. Here was another outrage of his dignity, another insult to hissupreme authority. In its passion, his gross mind leapt to the worstconclusion. "You here, too! What do you want here—with my wife! This isyour quarrel, is it?" His eyes glanced wrathfully from one to the other; and hestrode towards North. "You infernal hypocritical lying scoundrel, if it wasn'tfor your black coat, I'd—"

"Maurice!" cried Sylvia, in an agony of shame and terror, striving to placea restraining hand upon his arm. He turned upon her with so fiercely infamous acurse that North, pale with righteous rage, seemed prompted to strike the burlyruffian to the earth. For a moment, the two men faced each other, and thenFrere, muttering threats of vengeance against each and all—convicts,gaolers, wife, and priest—flung the suppliant woman violently from him,and rushed from the room. She fell heavily against the wall, and as thechaplain raised her, he heard the hoof-strokes of the departing horse.

"Oh," cried Sylvia, covering her face with trembling hands, "let me leavethis place!"

North, enfolding her in his arms, strove to soothe her with incoherent wordsof comfort. Dizzy with the blow she had received, she clung to him sobbing.Twice he tried to tear himself away, but had he loosed his hold she would havefallen. He could not hold her—bruised, suffering, and in tears—thusagainst his heart, and keep silence. In a torrent of agonized eloquence thestory of his love burst from his lips. "Why should you be thus tortured?" hecried. "Heaven never willed you to be mated to that boor—you, whose lifeshould be all sunshine. Leave him—leave him. He has cast you off. We haveboth suffered. Let us leave this dreadful place—this isthmus betweenearth and hell! I will give you happiness."

"I am going," she said faintly. "I have already arranged to go."

North trembled. "It was not of my seeking. Fate has willed it. We gotogether!"

They looked at each other—she felt the fever of his blood, she readhis passion in his eyes, she comprehended the "hatred" he had affected for her,and, deadly pale, drew back the cold hand he held.

"Go!" she murmured. "If you love me, leave me—leave me! Do not see meor speak to me again—" her silence added the words she could not utter,"till then."

CHAPTER XIV. GETTING READY FOR SEA.

Maurice Frere's passion had spent itself in that last act of violence. Hedid not return to the prison, as he promised himself, but turned into the roadthat led to the Cascades. He repented him of his suspicions. There was nothingstrange in the presence of the chaplain. Sylvia had always liked the man, andan apology for his conduct had doubtless removed her anger. To make a mountainout of a molehill was the act of an idiot. It was natural that she shouldrelease Dawes—women were so tender-hearted. A few well-chosen,calmly-uttered platitudes anent the necessity for the treatment that, to thoseunaccustomed to the desperate wickedness of convicts, must appear harsh, wouldhave served his turn far better than bluster and abuse. Moreover, North was tosail in the Lady Franklin, and might put in execution his threats of officialcomplaint, unless he was carefully dealt with. To put Dawes again to thetorture would be to show to Troke and his friends that the "Commandant's wife"had acted without the "Commandant's authority", and that must not be shown. Hewould now return and patch up a peace. His wife would sail in the same vesselwith North, and he would in a few days be left alone on the island to pursuehis "discipline" unchecked. With this intent he returned to the prison, andgravely informed poor Troke that he was astonished at his barbarity. "Mrs.Frere, who most luckily had appointed to meet me this evening at the prison,tells me that the poor devil Dawes had been on the stretcher since seveno'clock this morning."

"You ordered it fust thing, yer honour," said Troke.

"Yes, you fool, but I didn't order you to keep the man there for nine hours,did I? Why, you scoundrel, you might have killed him!" Troke scratched his headin bewilderment. "Take his irons off, and put him in a separate cell in the oldgaol. If a man is a murderer, that is no reason you should take the law intoyour own hands, is it? You'd better take care, Mr. Troke." On the way back hemet the chaplain, who, seeing him, made for a by-path in curious haste."Halloo!" roared Frere. "Hi! Mr. North!" Mr. North paused, and the Commandantmade at him abruptly. "Look here, sir, I was rude to you justnow—devilish rude. Most ungentlemanly of me. I must apologize." Northbowed, without speaking, and tried to pass.

"You must excuse my violence," Frere went on. "I'm bad-tempered, and Ididn't like my wife interfering. Women, don't you know, don't see thesethings—don't understand these scoundrels." North again bowed. "Why,d—n it, how savage you look! Quite ghastly, bigod! I must have said mostoutrageous things. Forget and forgive, you know. Come home and have somedinner."

"I cannot enter your house again, sir," said North, in tones more agitatedthan the occasion would seem to warrant.

Frere shrugged his great shoulders with a clumsy affectation of good humour,and held out his hand. "Well, shake hands, parson. You'll have to take care ofMrs. Frere on the voyage, and we may as well make up our differences before youstart. Shake hands."

"Let me pass, sir!" cried North, with heightened colour; and ignoring theproffered hand, strode savagely on.

"You've a d—d fine temper for a parson," said Frere to himself."However, if you won't, you won't. Hang me if I'll ask you again." Nor, when hereached home, did he fare better in his efforts at reconciliation with hiswife. Sylvia met him with the icy front of a woman whose pride has been woundedtoo deeply for tears.

"Say no more about it," she said. "I am going to my father. If you want toexplain your conduct, explain it to him."

"Come, Sylvia," he urged; "I was a brute, I know. Forgive me."

"It is useless to ask me," she said; "I cannot. I have forgiven you so muchduring the last seven years."

He attempted to embrace her, but she withdrew herself loathingly from hisarms. He swore a great oath at her, and, too obstinate to argue farther,sulked. Blunt, coming in about some ship matters, the pair drank rum. Sylviawent to her room and occupied herself with some minor details ofclothes-packing (it is wonderful how women find relief from thoughts inhousehold care), while North, poor fool, seeing from his window the light inhers, sat staring at it, alternately cursing and praying. In the meantime, theunconscious cause of all of this—Rufus Dawes—sat in his new cell,wondering at the chance which had procured him comfort, and blessing the fairhands that had brought it to him. He doubted not but that Sylvia had intercededwith his tormentor, and by gentle pleading brought him ease. "God bless her,"he murmured. "I have wronged her all these years. She did not know that Isuffered." He waited anxiously for North to visit him, that he might have hisbelief confirmed. "I will get him to thank her for me," he thought. But Northdid not come for two whole days. No one came but his gaolers; and, gazing fromhis prison window upon the sea that almost washed its walls, he saw theschooner at anchor, mocking him with a liberty he could not achieve. On thethird day, however, North came. His manner was constrained and abrupt. His eyeswandered uneasily, and he seemed burdened with thoughts which he dared notutter.

"I want you to thank her for me, Mr. North," said Dawes.

"Thank whom?"

"Mrs. Frere."

The unhappy priest shuddered at hearing the name.

"I do not think you owe any thanks to her. Your irons were removed by theCommandant's order."

"But by her persuasion. I feel sure of it. Ah, I was wrong to think she hadforgotten me. Ask her for her forgiveness."

"Forgiveness!" said North, recalling the scene in the prison. "What have youdone to need her forgiveness?"

"I doubted her," said Rufus Dawes. "I thought her ungrateful andtreacherous. I thought she delivered me again into the bondage from whence Ihad escaped. I thought she had betrayed me—betrayed me to the villainwhose base life I saved for her sweet sake."

"What do you mean?" asked North. "You never spoke to me of this."

"No, I had vowed to bury the knowledge of it in my own breast—it wastoo bitter to speak."

"Saved his life!"

"Ay, and hers! I made the boat that carried her to freedom. I held her in myarms, and took the bread from my own lips to feed her!"

"She cannot know this," said North in an undertone.

"She has forgotten it, perhaps, for she was but a child. But you will remindher, will you not? You will do me justice in her eyes before I die? You willget her forgiveness for me?"

North could not explain why such an interview as the convict desired wasimpossible, and so he promised.

"She is going away in the schooner," said he, concealing the fact of his owndeparture. "I will see her before she goes, and tell her."

"God bless you, sir," said poor Dawes. "Now pray with me"; and the wretchedpriest mechanically repeated one of the formulae his Church prescribes.

The next day he told his penitent that Mrs. Frere had forgiven him. This wasa lie. He had not seen her; but what should a lie be to him now? Lies wereneedful in the tortuous path he had undertaken to tread. Yet the deceit he wasforced to practise cost him many a pang. He had succumbed to his passion, andto win the love for which he yearned had voluntarily abandoned truth andhonour; but standing thus alone with his sin, he despised and hated himself. Todeaden remorse and drown reflection, he had recourse to brandy, and though thefierce excitement of his hopes and fears steeled him against the stupefyingaction of the liquor, he was rendered by it incapable of calm reflection. Incertain nervous conditions our mere physical powers are proof against theaction of alcohol, and though ten times more drunk than the toper, who,incoherently stammering, reels into the gutter, we can walk erect and talk withfluency. Indeed, in this artificial exaltation of the sensibilities, men oftendisplay a brilliant wit, and an acuteness of comprehension, calculated todelight their friends, and terrify their physicians. North had reached thiscondition of brain-drunkenness. In plain terms, he was trembling on the vergeof madness.

The days passed swiftly, and Blunt's preparations for sea were completed.There were two stern cabins in the schooner, one of which was appropriated toMrs. Frere, while the other was set apart for North. Maurice had not attemptedto renew his overtures of friendship, and the chaplain had not spoken. Mindfulof Sylvia's last words, he had resolved not to meet her until fairly embarkedupon the voyage which he intended should link their fortunes together. On themorning of the 19th December, Blunt declared himself ready to set sail, and inthe afternoon the two passengers came on board.

Rufus Dawes, gazing from his window upon the schooner that lay outside thereef, thought nothing of the fact that, after the Commandant's boat had takenaway the Commandant's wife another boat should put off with the chaplain. Itwas quite natural that Mr. North should desire to bid his friends farewell, andthrough the hot, still afternoon he watched for the returning boat, hoping thatthe chaplain would bring him some message from the woman whom he was never tosee more on earth. The hours wore on, however, and no breath of wind ruffledthe surface of the sea. The day was exceedingly close and sultry, heavy dunclouds hung on the horizon, and it seemed probable that unless a thunder-stormshould clear the air before night, the calm would continue. Blunt, however,with a true sailor's obstinacy in regard to weather, swore there would be abreeze, and held to his purpose of sailing. The hot afternoon passed away in asultry sunset, and it was not until the shades of evening had begun to fallthat Rufus Dawes distinguished a boat detach itself from the sides of theschooner, and glide through the oily water to the jetty. The chaplain wasreturning, and in a few hours perhaps would be with him, to bring him themessage of comfort for which his soul thirsted. He stretched out his unshackledlimbs, and throwing himself upon his stretcher, fell to recalling thepast—his boat-building, the news of his fortune, his love, and hisself-sacrifice.

North, however, was not returning to bring to the prisoner a message ofcomfort, but he was returning on purpose to see him, nevertheless. The unhappyman, torn by remorse and passion, had resolved upon a course of action whichseemed to him a penance for his crime of deceit. He determined to confess toDawes that the message he had brought was wholly fictitious, that he himselfloved the wife of the Commandant, and that with her he was about to leave theisland for ever. "I am no hypocrite," he thought, in his exaltation. "If Ichoose to sin, I will sin boldly; and this poor wretch, who looks up to me asan angel, shall know me for my true self."

The notion of thus destroying his own fame in the eyes of the man whom hehad taught to love him, was pleasant to his diseased imagination. It was thenatural outcome of the morbid condition of mind into which he had drifted, andhe provided for the complete execution of his scheme with cunning born of themischief working in his brain. It was desirable that the fatal stroke should bedealt at the last possible instant; that he should suddenly unveil his owninfamy, and then depart, never to be seen again. To this end he had invented anexcuse for returning to the shore at the latest possible moment. He hadpurposely left in his room a dressing-bag—the sort of article one islikely to forget in the hurry of departure from one's house, and so certain toremember when the time comes to finally prepare for settling in another. He hadingeniously extracted from Blunt the fact that "he didn't expect a wind beforedark, but wanted all ship-shape and aboard", and then, just as darkness fell,discovered that it was imperative for him to go ashore. Blunt cursed, but, ifthe chaplain insisted upon going, there was no help for it.

"There'll be a breeze in less than two hours," said he. "You've plenty oftime, but if you're not back before the first puff, I'll sail without you, assure as you're born." North assured him of his punctuality. "Don't wait for me,Captain, if I'm not here," said he with the lightness of tone which men use tomask anxiety. "I'd take him at his word, Blunt," said the Commandant, who wasaffably waiting to take final farewell of his wife. "Give way there, men," heshouted to the crew, "and wait at the jetty. If Mr. North misses his shipthrough your laziness, you'll pay for it." So the boat set off, North laughinguproariously at the thought of being late. Frere observed with someastonishment that the chaplain wrapped himself in a boat cloak that lay in thestern sheets. "Does the fellow want to smother himself in a night like this!"was his remark. The truth was that, though his hands and head were burning,North's teeth chattered with cold. Perhaps this was the reason why, when landedand out of eyeshot of the crew, he produced a pocket-flask of rum and eagerlydrank. The spirit gave him courage for the ordeal to which he had condemnedhimself; and with steadied step, he reached the door of the old prison. To hissurprise, Gimblett refused him admission!

"But I have come direct from the Commandant," said North.

"Got any order, sir?"

"Order! No."

"I can't let you in, your reverence," said Gimblett.

"I want to see the prisoner Dawes. I have a special message for him. I havecome ashore on purpose."

"I am very sorry, sir—"

"The ship will sail in two hours, man, and I shall miss her," said North,indignant at being frustrated in his design. "Let me pass."

"Upon my honour, sir, I daren't," said Gimblett, who was not without hisgood points. "You know what authority is, sir."

North was in despair, but a bright thought struck him—a thought that,in his soberer moments, would never have entered his head—he would buyadmission. He produced the rum flask from beneath the sheltering cloak. "Come,don't talk nonsense to me, Gimblett. You don't suppose I would come herewithout authority. Here, take a pull at this, and let me through." Gimblett'sfeatures relaxed into a smile. "Well, sir, I suppose it's all right, if you sayso," said he. And clutching the rum bottle with one hand, he opened the door ofDawes's cell with the other.

North entered, and as the door closed behind him, the prisoner, who had beenlying apparently asleep upon his bed, leapt up, and made as though to catch himby the throat.

Rufus Dawes had dreamt a dream. Alone, amid the gathering glooms, his fancyhad recalled the past, and had peopled it with memories. He thought that he wasonce more upon the barren strand where he had first met with the sweet child heloved. He lived again his life of usefulness and honour. He saw himself workingat the boat, embarking, and putting out to sea. The fair head of the innocentgirl was again pillowed on his breast; her young lips again murmured words ofaffection in his greedy ear. Frere was beside him, watching him, as he hadwatched before. Once again the grey sea spread around him, barren of succour.Once again, in the wild, wet morning, he beheld the American brig bearing downupon them, and saw the bearded faces of the astonished crew. He saw Frere takethe child in his arms and mount upon the deck; he heard the shout of delightthat went up, and pressed again the welcoming hands which greeted the rescuedcastaways. The deck was crowded. All the folk he had ever known were there. Hesaw the white hair and stern features of Sir Richard Devine, and beside himstood, wringing her thin hands, his weeping mother. Then Frere strode forward,and after him John Rex, the convict, who, roughly elbowing through the crowd ofprisoners and gaolers, would have reached the spot where stood Sir RichardDevine, but that the corpse of the murdered Lord Bellasis arose and thrust himback. How the hammers clattered in the shipbuilder's yard! Was it a coffin theywere making? Not for Sylvia—surely not for her! The air grows heavy,lurid with flame, and black with smoke. The Hydaspes is on fire! Sylvia clingsto her husband. Base wretch, would you shake her off! Look up; the midnightheaven is glittering with stars; above the smoke the air breathes delicately!One step—another! Fix your eyes on mine—so—to my heart! Alas!she turns; he catches at her dress. What! It is a priest—apriest—who, smiling with infernal joy, would drag her to the flaming gulfthat yawns for him. The dreamer leaps at the wretch's throat, and crying,"Villain, was it for this fate I saved her?"—and awakes to find himselfstruggling with the monster of his dream, the idol of his wakingsenses—"Mr. North."

North, paralysed no less by the suddenness of the attack than by the wordswith which it was accompanied, let fall his cloak, and stood trembling beforethe prophetic accusation of the man whose curses he had come to earn.

"I was dreaming," said Rufus Dawes. "A terrible dream! But it has passednow. The message—you have brought me a message, have you not?Why—what ails you? You are pale—your knees tremble. Did myviolence——?"

North recovered himself with a great effort. "It is nothing. Let us talk,for my time is short. You have thought me a good man—one blessed of God,one consecrated to a holy service; a man honest, pure, and truthful. I havereturned to tell you the truth. I am none of these things." Rufus Dawes satstaring, unable to comprehend this madness. "I told you that the woman youloved—for you do love her—sent you a message of forgiveness. Ilied."

"What!"

"I never told her of your confession. I never mentioned your name toher."

"And she will go without knowing—Oh, Mr. North, what have youdone?"

"Wrecked my own soul!" cried North, wildly, stung by the reproachful agonyof the tone. "Do not cling to me. My task is done. You will hate me now. Thatis my wish—I merit it. Let me go, I say. I shall be too late."

"Too late! For what?" He looked at the cloak—through the open windowcame the voices of the men in the boat—the memory of the rose, of thescene in the prison, flashed across him, and he understood it all.

"Great Heaven, you go together!"

"Let me go," repeated North, in a hoarse voice.

Rufus Dawes stepped between him and the door. "No, madman, I will not letyou go, to do this great wrong, to kill this innocent young soul, who—Godhelp her—loves you!" North, confounded at this sudden reversal of theirposition towards each other, crouched bewildered against the wall. "I say youshall not go! You shall not destroy your own soul and hers! You love her! So doI! and my love is mightier than yours, for it shall save her!"

"In God's name—" cried the unhappy priest, striving to stop hisears.

"Ay, in God's name! In the name of that God whom in my torments I hadforgotten! In the name of that God whom you taught me to remember! That God whosent you to save me from despair, gives me strength to save you in my turn! Oh,Mr. North—my teacher—my friend—my brother—by the sweethope of mercy which you preached to me, be merciful to this erring woman!"

North lifted agonized eyes. "But I love her! Love her, do you hear? What doyou know of love?"

"Love!" cried Rufus Dawes, his pale face radiant. "Love! Oh, it is you whodo not know it. Love is the sacrifice of self, the death of all desire that isnot for another's good. Love is Godlike! You love?—no, no, your love isselfishness, and will end in shame! Listen, I will tell you the history of sucha love as yours."

North, enthralled by the other's overmastering will, fell backtrembling.

"I will tell you the secret of my life, the reason why I am here. Comecloser."

CHAPTER XV. THE DISCOVERY.

The house in Clarges Street was duly placed at the disposal of Mrs. RichardDevine, who was installed in it, to the profound astonishment and disgust ofMr. Smithers and his fellow-servants. It now only remained that the lady shouldbe formally recognized by Lady Devine. The rest of the ingenious programmewould follow as a matter of course. John Rex was well aware of the positionwhich, in his assumed personality, he occupied in society. He knew that by theworld of servants, of waiters, of those to whom servants and waiters couldbabble; of such turfites and men-about-town as had reason to inquire concerningMr. Richard's domestic affairs—no opinion could be expressed, save that"Devine's married somebody, I hear," with variations to the same effect. Heknew well that the really great world, the Society, whose scandal would havebeen socially injurious, had long ceased to trouble itself with Mr. RichardDevine's doings in any particular. If it had been reported that the Leviathanof the Turf had married his washerwoman, Society would only have intimated that"it was just what might have been expected of him". To say the truth, however,Mr. Richard had rather hoped that—disgusted at his brutality—LadyDevine would have nothing more to do with him, and that the ordeal ofpresenting his wife would not be necessary. Lady Devine, however, had resolvedon a different line of conduct. The intelligence concerning Mr. RichardDevine's threatened proceedings seemed to nerve her to the confession of thedislike which had been long growing in her mind; seemed even to aid theformation of those doubts, the shadows of which had now and then castthemselves upon her belief in the identity of the man who called himself herson. "His conduct is brutal," said she to her brother. "I cannot understandit."

"It is more than brutal; it is unnatural," returned Francis Wade, and stolea look at her. "Moreover, he is married."

"Married!" cried Lady Devine.

"So he says," continued the other, producing the letter sent to him by Rexat Sarah's dictation. "He writes to me stating that his wife, whom he marriedlast year abroad, has come to England, and wishes us to receive her."

"I will not receive her!" cried Lady Devine, rising and pacing down thepath.

"But that would be a declaration of war," said poor Francis, twisting anItalian onyx which adorned his irresolute hand. "I would not advise that."

Lady Devine stopped suddenly, with the gesture of one who has finally made adifficult and long-considered resolution. "Richard shall not sell this house,"she said.

"But, my dear Ellinor," cried her brother, in some alarm at this unwonteddecision, "I am afraid that you can't prevent him."

"If he is the man he says he is, I can," returned she, with effort.

Francis Wade gasped. "If he is the man! It is true—I have sometimesthought—Oh, Ellinor, can it be that we have been deceived?"

She came to him and leant upon him for support, as she had leant upon herson in the garden where they now stood, nineteen years ago. "I do not know, Iam afraid to think. But between Richard and myself is a secret—a shamefulsecret, Frank, known to no other living person. If the man who threatens medoes not know that secret, he is not my son. If he does knowit——"

"Well, in Heaven's name, what then?"

"He knows that he has neither part nor lot in the fortune of the man who wasmy husband."

"Ellinor, you terrify me. What does this mean?"

"I will tell you if there be need to do so," said the unhappy lady. "But Icannot now. I never meant to speak of it again, even to him. Consider that itis hard to break a silence of nearly twenty years. Write to this man, and tellhim that before I receive his wife, I wish to see him alone. No—do notlet him come here until the truth be known. I will go to him."

It was with some trepidation that Mr. Richard, sitting with his wife on theafternoon of the 3rd May, 1846, awaited the arrival of his mother. He had beenvery nervous and unstrung for some days past, and the prospect of the cominginterview was, for some reason he could not explain to himself, weighty withfears. "What does she want to come alone for? And what can she have to say?" heasked himself. "She cannot suspect anything after all these years, surely?" Heendeavoured to reason with himself, but in vain; the knock at the door whichannounced the arrival of his pretended mother made his heart jump.

"I feel deuced shaky, Sarah," he said. "Let's have a nip of something."

"You've been nipping too much for the last five years, Dick." (She had quiteschooled her tongue to the new name.) "Your 'shakiness' is the result of'nipping', I'm afraid."

"Oh, don't preach; I am not in the humour for it."

"Help yourself, then. You are quite sure that you are ready with yourstory?"

The brandy revived him, and he rose with affected heartiness. "My dearmother, allow me to present to you—" He paused, for there was that inLady Devine's face which confirmed his worst fears.

"I wish to speak to you alone," she said, ignoring with steady eyes thewoman whom she had ostensibly come to see.

John Rex hesitated, but Sarah saw the danger, and hastened to confront it."A wife should be a husband's best friend, madam. Your son married me of hisown free will, and even his mother can have nothing to say to him which it isnot my duty and privilege to hear. I am not a girl as you can see, and I canbear whatever news you bring."

Lady Devine bit her pale lips. She saw at once that the woman before her wasnot gently-born, but she felt also that she was a woman of higher mentalcalibre than herself. Prepared as she was for the worst, this sudden and opendeclaration of hostilities frightened her, as Sarah had calculated. She beganto realize that if she was to prove equal to the task she had set herself, shemust not waste her strength in skirmishing. Steadily refusing to look atRichard's wife, she addressed herself to Richard. "My brother will be here inhalf an hour," she said, as though the mention of his name would better herposition in some way. "But I begged him to allow me to come first in order thatI might speak to you privately."

"Well," said John Rex, "we are in private. What have you to say?"

"I want to tell you that I forbid you to carry out the plan you have forbreaking up Sir Richard's property."

"Forbid me!" cried Rex, much relieved. "Why, I only want to do what myfather's will enables me to do."

"Your father's will enables you to do nothing of the sort, and you know it."She spoke as though rehearsing a series of set-speeches, and Sarah watched herwith growing alarm.

"Oh, nonsense!" cries John Rex, in sheer amazement. "I have a lawyer'sopinion on it."

"Do you remember what took place at Hampstead this day nineteen yearsago?"

"At Hampstead!" said Rex, grown suddenly pale. "This day nineteen years ago.No! What do you mean?"

"Do you not remember?" she continued, leaning forward eagerly, and speakingalmost fiercely. "Do you not remember the reason why you left the house whereyou were born, and which you now wish to sell to strangers?"

John Rex stood dumbfounded, the blood suffusing his temples. He knew thatamong the secrets of the man whose inheritance he had stolen was one which hehad never gained—the secret of that sacrifice to which Lady Devine hadonce referred—and he felt that this secret was to be revealed to crushhim now.

Sarah, trembling also, but more with rage than terror, swept towards LadyDevine. "Speak out!" she said, "if you have anything to say! Of what do youaccuse my husband?"

"Of imposture!" cried Lady Devine, all her outraged maternity nerving her toabash her enemy. "This man may be your husband, but he is not my son!"

Now that the worst was out, John Rex, choking with passion, felt all thedevil within him rebelling against defeat. "You are mad," he said. "You haverecognized me for three years, and now, because I want to claim that which ismy own, you invent this lie. Take care how you provoke me. If I am not yourson—you have recognized me as such. I stand upon the law and upon myrights."

Lady Devine turned swiftly, and with both hands to her bosom, confrontedhim.

"You shall have your rights! You shall have what the law allows you! Oh, howblind I have been all these years. Persist in your infamous imposture. Callyourself Richard Devine still, and I will tell the world the shameful secretwhich my son died to hide. Be Richard Devine! Richard Devine was a bastard, andthe law allows him—nothing!"

There was no doubting the truth of her words. It was impossible that even awoman whose home had been desecrated, as hers had been, would invent a lie soself-condemning. Yet John Rex forced himself to appear to doubt, and his drylips asked, "If then your husband was not the father of your son, who was?"

"My cousin, Armigell Esmè Wade, Lord Bellasis," answered LadyDevine.

John Rex gasped for breath. His hand, tugging at his neck-cloth, rent awaythe linen that covered his choking throat. The whole horizon of his past waslit up by a lightning flash which stunned him. His brain, already enfeebled byexcess, was unable to withstand this last shock. He staggered, and but for thecabinet against which he leant, would have fallen. The secret thoughts of hisheart rose to his lips, and were uttered unconsciously. "Lord Bellasis! He wasmy father also, and—I killed him!"

A dreadful silence fell, and then Lady Devine, stretching out her handstowards the self-confessed murderer, with a sort of frightful respect, said ina whisper, in which horror and supplication were strangely mingled, "What didyou do with my son? Did you kill him also?"

But John Rex, wagging his head from side to side, like a beast in theshambles that has received a mortal stroke, made no reply. Sarah Purfoy, awedas she was by the dramatic force of the situation, nevertheless remembered thatFrancis Wade might arrive at any moment, and saw her last opportunity forsafety. She advanced and touched the mother on the shoulder.

"Your son is alive!"

"Where?"

"Will you promise not to hinder us leaving this house if I tell you?"

"Yes, yes."

"Will you promise to keep the confession which you have heard secret, untilwe have left England?"

"I promise anything. In God's name, woman, if you have a woman's heart,speak! Where is my son?"

Sarah Purfoy rose over the enemy who had defeated her, and said in level,deliberate accents, "They call him Rufus Dawes. He is a convict at NorfolkIsland, transported for life for the murder which you have heard my husbandconfess to having committed—Ah!——"

Lady Devine had fainted.

CHAPTER XVI. FIFTEEN HOURS.

Sarah flew to Rex. "Rouse yourself, John, for Heaven's sake. We have not amoment." John Rex passed his hand over his forehead wearily.

"I cannot think. I am broken down. I am ill. My brain seems dead."

Nervously watching the prostrate figure on the floor, she hurried on bonnet,cloak, and veil, and in a twinkling had him outside the house and into acab.

"Thirty-nine, Lombard Street. Quick!"

"You won't give me up?" said Rex, turning dull eyes upon her.

"Give you up? No. But the police will be after us as soon as that woman canspeak, and her brother summon his lawyer. I know what her promise is worth. Wehave only got about fifteen hours start."

"I can't go far, Sarah," said he; "I am sleepy and stupid."

She repressed the terrible fear that tugged at her heart, and strove torally him.

"You've been drinking too much, John. Now sit still and be good, while I goand get some money for you."

She hurried into the bank, and her name secured her an interview with themanager at once.

"That's a rich woman," said one of the clerks to his friend. "A widow, too!Chance for you, Tom," returned the other; and, presently, from out the sacredpresence came another clerk with a request for "a draft on Sydney for threethousand, less premium", and bearing a cheque signed "Sarah Carr" for£200, which he "took" in notes, and so returned again.

From the bank she was taken to Green's Shipping Office. "I want a cabin inthe first ship for Sydney, please."

The shipping-clerk looked at a board. "The Highflyer goes in twelve days,madam, and there is one cabin vacant."

"I want to go at once—to-morrow or next day."

He smiled. "I am afraid that is impossible," said he. Just then one of thepartners came out of his private room with a telegram in his hand, and beckonedthe shipping-clerk. Sarah was about to depart for another office, when theclerk came hastily back.

"Just the thing for you, ma'am," said he. "We have got a telegram from agentleman who has a first cabin in the Dido, to say that his wife has beentaken ill, and he must give up his berth."

"When does the Dido sail?"

"To-morrow morning. She is at Plymouth, waiting for the mails. If you godown to-night by the mail-train which leaves at 9.30, you will be in plenty oftime, and we will telegraph."

"I will take the cabin. How much?"

"One hundred and thirty pounds, madam," said he.

She produced her notes. "Pray count it yourself. We have been delayed in thesame manner ourselves. My husband is a great invalid, but I was not sofortunate as to get someone to refund us our passage-money."

"What name did you say?" asked the clerk, counting. "Mr. and Mrs. Carr.Thank you," and he handed her the slip of paper.

"Thank you," said Sarah, with a bewitching smile, and swept down to her cabagain. John Rex was gnawing his nails in sullen apathy. She displayed thepassage-ticket. "You are saved. By the time Mr. Francis Wade gets his witstogether, and his sister recovers her speech, we shall be past pursuit."

"To Sydney!" cries Rex angrily, looking at the warrant. "Why there of allplaces in God's earth?"

Sarah surveyed him with an expression of contempt. "Because your scheme hasfailed. Now this is mine. You have deserted me once; you will do so again inany other country. You are a murderer, a villain, and a coward, but you suitme. I save you, but I mean to keep you. I will bring you to Australia, wherethe first trooper will arrest you at my bidding as an escaped convict. If youdon't like to come, stay behind. I don't care. I am rich. I have done no wrong.The law cannot touch me—Do you agree? Then tell the man to drive toSilver's in Cornhill for your outfit."

Having housed him at last—all gloomy and despondent—in a quiettavern near the railway station, she tried to get some information as to thislast revealed crime.

"How came you to kill Lord Bellasis?" she asked him quietly.

"I had found out from my mother that I was his natural son, and one dayriding home from a pigeon match I told him so. He taunted me—and I struckhim. I did not mean to kill him, but he was an old man, and in my passion Istruck hard. As he fell, I thought I saw a horseman among the trees, and Igalloped off. My ill-luck began then, for the same night I was arrested at thecoiner's."

"But I thought there was robbery," said she.

"Not by me. But, for God's sake, talk no more about it. I am sick—mybrain is going round. I want to sleep."

"Be careful, please! Lift him gently!" said Mrs. Carr, as the boat rangedalongside the Dido, gaunt and grim, in the early dawn of a bleak Maymorning.

"What's the matter?" asked the officer of the watch, perceiving the bustlein the boat.

"Gentleman seems to have had a stroke," said a boatman.

It was so. There was no fear that John Rex would escape again from the womanhe had deceived. The infernal genius of Sarah Purfoy had saved her lover atlast—but saved him only that she might nurse him till he died—diedignorant even of her tenderness, a mere animal, lacking the intellect he had inhis selfish wickedness abused.

CHAPTER XVII. THE REDEMPTION.

——"That is my story. Let it plead with you to turn you from yourpurpose, and to save her. The punishment of sin falls not upon the sinner only.A deed once done lives in its consequence for ever, and this tragedy of shameand crime to which my felon's death is a fitting end, is but the outcome of aselfish sin like yours!"

It had grown dark in the prison, and as he ceased speaking, Rufus Dawes felta trembling hand seize his own. It was that of the chaplain.

"Let me hold your hand!—Sir Richard Devine did not murder your father.He was murdered by a horseman who, riding with him, struck him and fled."

"Merciful God! How do you know this?"

"Because I saw the murder committed, because—don't let go myhand—I robbed the body."

"You!—"

"In my youth I was a gambler. Lord Bellasis won money from me, and to payhim I forged two bills of exchange. Unscrupulous and cruel, he threatened toexpose me if I did not give him double the sum. Forgery was death in thosedays, and I strained every nerve to buy back the proofs of my folly. Isucceeded. I was to meet Lord Bellasis near his own house at Hampstead on thenight of which you speak, to pay the money and receive the bills. When I sawhim fall I galloped up, but instead of pursuing his murderer I rifled hispocket-book of my forgeries. I was afraid to give evidence at the trial, or Imight have saved you.—Ah! you have let go my hand!"

"God forgive you!" said Rufus Dawes, and then was silent.

"Speak!" cried North. "Speak, or you will make me mad. Reproach me! Spurnme! Spit upon me! You cannot think worse of me than I do myself." But theother, his head buried in his hands, did not answer, and with a wild gestureNorth staggered out of the cell.

Nearly an hour had passed since the chaplain had placed the rum flask in hishand, and Gimblett observed, with semi-drunken astonishment, that it was notyet empty. He had intended, in the first instance, to have taken but one sup inpayment of his courtesy—for Gimblett was conscious of his own weakness inthe matter of strong waters—but as he waited and waited, the one supbecame two, and two three, and at length more than half the contents of thebottle had moistened his gullet, and maddened him for more. Gimblett was in aquandary. If he didn't finish the flask, he would be oppressed with aneverlasting regret. If he did finish it he would be drunk; and to be drunk onduty was the one unpardonable sin. He looked across the darkness of the sea, towhere the rising and falling light marked the schooner. The Commandant was along way off! A faint breeze, which had—according to Blunt'sprophecy—arisen with the night, brought up to him the voices of theboat's crew from the jetty below him. His friend Jack Mannix was coxswain ofher. He would give Jack a drink. Leaving the gate, he advanced unsteadily tothe edge of the embankment, and, putting his head over, called out to hisfriend. The breeze, however, which was momentarily freshening, carried hisvoice away; and Jack Mannix, hearing nothing, continued his conversation.Gimblett was just drunk enough to be virtuously indignant at this incivility,and seating himself on the edge of the bank, swallowed the remainder of the rumat a draught. The effect upon his enforcedly temperate stomach was verytouching. He made one feeble attempt to get upon his legs, cast a reproachfulglance at the rum bottle, essayed to drink out of its spirituous emptiness, andthen, with a smile of reckless contentment, cursed the island and all itscontents, and fell asleep.

North, coming out of the prison, did not notice the absence of the gaoler;indeed, he was not in a condition to notice anything. Bare-headed, without hiscloak, with staring eyes and clenched hands, he rushed through the gates intothe night as one who flies headlong from some fearful vision. It seemed that,absorbed in his own thoughts, he took no heed of his steps, for instead oftaking the path which led to the sea, he kept along the more familiar one thatled to his own cottage on the hill. "This man a convict!" he cried. "He is ahero—a martyr! What a life! Love! Yes, that is love indeed! Oh, JamesNorth, how base art thou in the eyes of God beside this despised outcast!" Andso muttering, tearing his grey hair, and beating his throbbing temples withclenched hands, he reached his own room, and saw, by the light of the new-bornmoon, the dressing-bag and candle standing on the table as he had left them.They brought again to his mind the recollection of the task that was beforehim. He lighted the candle, and, taking the bag in his hand, cast one last lookround the chamber which had witnessed his futile struggles against that baserpart of himself which had at last triumphed. It was so. Fate had condemned himto sin, and he must now fulfil the doom he might once have averted. Already hefancied he could see the dim speck that was the schooner move slowly away fromthe prison shore. He must not linger; they would be waiting for him at thejetty. As he turned, the moonbeams—as yet unobscured by the rapidlygathering clouds—flung a silver streak across the sea, and across thatstreak North saw a boat pass. Was his distracted brain playing himfalse?—in the stern sat, wrapped in a cloak, the figure of a man! Afierce gust of wind drove the sea-rack over the moon, and the boat disappeared,as though swallowed up by the gathering storm. North staggered back as thetruth struck him.

He remembered how he had said, "I will redeem him with my own blood!" Was itpossible that a just Heaven had thus decided to allow the man whom a coward hadcondemned, to escape, and to punish the coward who remained? Oh, this mandeserved freedom; he was honest, noble, truthful! How different fromhimself—a hateful self-lover, an unchaste priest, a drunkard. Thelooking-glass, in which the saintly face of Meekin was soon to be reflected,stood upon the table, and North, peering into it, with one hand mechanicallythrust into the bag, started in insane rage at the pale face and bloodshot eyeshe saw there. What a hateful wretch he had become! The last fatal impulse ofinsanity which seeks relief from its own hideous self came upon him, and hisfingers closed convulsively upon the object they had been seeking.

"It is better so," he muttered, addressing, with fixed eyes, his owndetested image. "I have examined you long enough. I have read your heart, andwritten out your secrets! You are but a shell—the shell that holds acorrupted and sinful heart. He shall live; you shall die!" The rapid motion ofhis arm overturned the candle, and all was dark.

Rufus Dawes, overpowered by the revelation so suddenly made to him, hadremained for a few moments motionless in his cell, expecting to hear the heavyclang of the outer door, which should announce to him the departure of thechaplain. But he did not hear it, and it seemed to him that the air in the cellhad grown suddenly cooler. He went to the door, and looked into the narrowcorridor, expecting to see the scowling countenance of Gimblett. To hisastonishment the door of the prison was wide open, and not a soul in sight. Hisfirst thought was of North. Had the story he had told, coupled with theentreaties he had lavished, sufficed to turn him from his purpose?

He looked around. The night was falling suddenly; the wind was mounting;from beyond the bar came the hoarse murmur of an angry sea. If the schooner wasto sail that night, she had best get out into deep waters. Where was thechaplain? Pray Heaven the delay had been sufficient, and they had sailedwithout him. Yet they would be sure to meet. He advanced a few steps nearer,and looked about him. Was it possible that, in his madness, the chaplain hadbeen about to commit some violence which had drawn the trusty Gimblett from hispost? "Gr-r-r-r! Ouph!" The trusty Gimblett was lying at his feet—deaddrunk!

"Hi! Hiho! Hillo there!" roared somebody from the jetty below. "Be that you,Muster Noarth? We ain't too much tiam, sur!"

From the uncurtained windows of the chaplain's house on the hill beamed thenewly-lighted candle. They in the boat did not see it, but it brought to theprisoner a wild hope that made his heart bound. He ran back to the cell,clapped on North's wide-awake, and flinging the cloak hastily about him, camequickly down the steps. If the moon should shine out now!

"Jump in, sir," said unsuspecting Mannix, thinking only of the flogging hehad been threatened with. "It'll be a dirty night, this night! Put this overyour knees, sir. Shove her off! Give way!" And they were afloat. But oneglimpse of moonlight fell upon the slouched hat and cloaked figure, and theboat's crew, engaged in the dangerous task of navigating the reef in the teethof the rising gale, paid no attention to the chaplain.

"By George, lads, we're but just in time!" cried Mannix; and they laidalongside the schooner, black in blackness. "Up ye go, yer honour, quick!" Thewind had shifted, and was now off the shore. Blunt, who had begun to repent ofhis obstinacy, but would not confess it, thought the next best thing to ridingout the gale was to get out to open sea. "Damn the parson," he had said, in allheartiness; "we can't wait all night for him. Heave ahead, Mr. Johnson!" And sothe anchor was atrip as Rufus Dawes ran up the side.

The Commandant, already pulling off in his own boat, roared a coarsefarewell. "Good-bye, North! It was touch and go with ye!" adding, "Curse thefellow, he's too proud to answer!"

The chaplain indeed spoke to no one, and plunging down the hatchway, madefor the stern cabins. "Close shave, your reverence!" said a respectfulsomebody, opening a door. It was; but the clergyman did not say so. Hedouble-locked the door, and hardly realizing the danger he had escaped, flunghimself on the bunk, panting. Over his head he heard the rapid tramp of feetand the cheery,

Yo hi-oh! and a rumbelow!

of the men at the capstan. He could smell the sea, and through the openwindow of the cabin could distinguish the light in the chaplain's house on thehill. The trampling ceased, the vessel began to move slowly—theCommandant's boat appeared below him for an instant, making her wayback—the Lady Franklin had set sail. With his eyes fixed on the tinylight, he strove to think what was best to be done. It was hopeless to thinkthat he could maintain the imposture which, favoured by the darkness andconfusion, he had hitherto successfully attempted. He was certain to bedetected at Hobart Town, even if he could lie concealed during his long andtedious voyage. That mattered little, however. He had saved Sylvia, for Northhad been left behind. Poor North! As the thought of pity came to him, the lighthe looked at was suddenly extinguished, and Rufus Dawes, compelled thereto asby an irresistible power, fell upon his knees and prayed for the pardon andhappiness of the man who had redeemed him.

*

"That's a gun from the shore," said Partridge the mate, "and they're burninga red light. There's a prisoner escaped. Shall we lie-to?"

"Lie-to!" cried old Blunt, with a tremendous oath. "We'll have suthin' elseto do. Look there!"

The sky to the northward was streaked with a belt of livid green colour,above which rose a mighty black cloud, whose shape was ever changing.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE CYCLONE.

Blunt, recognising the meteoric heralds of danger, had begun to regret hisobstinacy. He saw that a hurricane was approaching.

Along the south coast of the Australian continent, though the usual westerlywinds and gales of the highest latitudes prevail during the greater portion ofthe year, hurricanes are not infrequent. Gales commence at NW with a lowbarometer, increasing at W and SW, and gradually veering to the south. Truecyclones occur at New Zealand. The log of the Adelaide for 29th February, 1870,describes one which travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour, and had all theveerings, calm centre, etc., of a true tropical hurricane. Now a cycloneoccurring off the west coast of New Zealand would travel from the New Hebrides,where such storms are hideously frequent, and envelop Norfolk Island, passingdirectly across the track of vessels coming from South America to Sydney. Itwas one of these rotatory storms, an escaped tempest of the tropics, whichthreatened the Lady Franklin.

The ominous calm which had brooded over the island during the day had givenplace to a smart breeze from the north-east, and though the schooner had beensheltered at her anchorage under the lee of the island (the "harbour" lookednearly due south), when once fairly out to sea, Blunt saw it would beimpossible to put back in the teeth of the gale. Haply, however, the full furyof the storm would not overtake them till they had gained sea-room.

Rufus Dawes, exhausted with the excitement through which he had passed, hadslept for two or three hours, when he was awakened by the motion of the vesselgoing on the other tack. He rose to his feet, and found himself in completedarkness. Overhead was the noise of trampling feet, and he could distinguishthe hoarse tones of Blunt bellowing orders. Astonished at the absence of themoonlight which had so lately silvered the sea, he flung open the cabin windowand looked out. As we have said, the cabin allotted to North was one of the twostern cabins, and from it the convict had a full view of the approachingstorm.

The sight was one of wild grandeur. The huge, black cloud which hung in thehorizon had changed its shape. Instead of a curtain it was an arch. Beneaththis vast and magnificent portal shone a dull phosphoric light. Across thislivid space pale flashes of sheet-lightning passed noiselessly. Behind it was adull and threatening murmur, made up of the grumbling of thunder, the fallingof rain, and the roar of contending wind and water. The lights of theprison-island had disappeared, so rapid had been the progress of the schoonerunder the steady breeze, and the ocean stretched around, black and desolate.Gazing upon this gloomy expanse, Rufus Dawes observed a strangephenomenon—lightning appeared to burst upwards from the sullen bosom ofthe sea. At intervals, the darkly-rolling waves flashed fire, and streaks offlame shot upwards. The wind increased in violence, and the arch of light wasfringed with rain. A dull, red glow hung around, like the reflection of aconflagration. Suddenly, a tremendous peal of thunder, accompanied by aterrific downfall of rain, rattled along the sky. The arch of lightdisappeared, as though some invisible hand had shut the slide of a giantlantern. A great wall of water rushed roaring over the level plain of the sea,and with an indescribable medley of sounds, in which tones of horror, triumph,and torture were blended, the cyclone swooped upon them.

Rufus Dawes comprehended that the elements had come to save or destroy him.In that awful instant the natural powers of the man rose equal to the occasion.In a few hours his fate would be decided, and it was necessary that he shouldtake all precaution. One of two events seemed inevitable; he would either bedrowned where he lay, or, should the vessel weather the storm, he would beforced upon the deck, and the desperate imposture he had attempted bediscovered. For the moment despair overwhelmed him, and he contemplated theraging sea as though he would cast himself into it, and thus end his troubles.The tones of a woman's voice recalled him to himself. Cautiously unlocking thecabin door, he peered out. The cuddy was lighted by a swinging lamp whichrevealed Sylvia questioning one of the women concerning the storm. As RufusDawes looked, he saw her glance, with an air half of hope, half of fear,towards the door behind which he lurked, and he understood that she expected tosee the chaplain. Locking the door, he proceeded hastily to dress himself inNorth's clothes. He would wait until his aid was absolutely required, and thenrush out. In the darkness, Sylvia would mistake him for the priest. He couldconvey her to the boat—if recourse to the boats should be renderednecessary—and then take the hazard of his fortune. While she was indanger, his place was near by.

From the deck of the vessel the scene was appalling. The clouds had closedin. The arch of light had disappeared, and all was a dull, windy blackness.Gigantic seas seemed to mount in the horizon and sweep towards and upon them.It was as though the ship lay in the vortex of a whirlpool, so high on eitherside of her were piled the rough pyramidical masses of sea. Mighty gustsarose—claps of wind which seemed like strokes of thunder. A sail loosenedfrom its tackling was torn away and blown out to sea, disappearing like a shredof white paper to leeward. The mercury in the barometer marked 29:50. Blunt,who had been at the rum bottle, swore great oaths that no soul on board wouldsee another sun; and when Partridge rebuked him for blasphemy at such a moment,wept spirituous tears.

The howling of the wind was benumbing; the very fury of sound enfeebledwhile it terrified. The sailors, horror-stricken, crawled about the deck,clinging to anything they thought most secure. It was impossible to raise thehead to look to windward. The eyelids were driven together, and the face stungby the swift and biting spray. Men breathed this atmosphere of salt and wind,and became sickened. Partridge felt that orders were useless—the man athis elbow could not have heard them. The vessel lay almost on her beam ends,with her helm up, stripped even of the sails which had been furled upon theyards. Mortal hands could do nothing for her.

By five o'clock in the morning the gale had reached its height. The heavensshowered out rain and lightnings—rain which the wind blew away before itreached the ocean, lightnings which the ravenous and mountainous wavesswallowed before they could pierce the gloom. The ship lay over on her side,held there by the madly rushing wind, which seemed to flatten down the sea,cutting off the top of the waves, and breaking them into fine white spray whichcovered the ocean like a thick cloud, as high as the topmast heads. Each gustseemed unsurpassable in intensity, but was succeeded, after a pause, that wasnot a lull but a gasp, by one of more frantic violence. The barometer stood at27:82. The ship was a mere labouring, crazy wreck, that might sink at anymoment. At half-past three o'clock the barometer had fallen to 27:62. Save whenlighted by occasional flashes of sheet-lightning, which showed to the cowedwretches their awe-stricken faces, this tragedy of the elements was performedin a darkness which was almost palpable.

Suddenly the mercury rose to 29:90, and, with one awful shriek, the winddropped to a calm. The Lady Franklin had reached the centre of the cyclone.Partridge, glancing to where the great body of drunken Blunt rolled helplesslylashed to the wheel, felt a strange selfish joy thrill him. If the shipsurvived the drunken captain would be dismissed, and he, Partridge, thegallant, would reign in his stead. The schooner, no longer steadied by thewind, was at the mercy of every sea. Volumes of water poured over her.Presently she heeled over, for, with a triumphant scream, the wind leapt on toher from a fresh quarter. Following its usual course, the storm returned uponits track. The hurricane was about to repeat itself from the north-west.

The sea, pouring down through the burst hatchway, tore the door of the cuddyfrom its hinges. Sylvia found herself surrounded by a wildly-surging torrentwhich threatened to overwhelm her. She shrieked aloud for aid, but her voicewas inaudible even to herself. Clinging to the mast which penetrated the littlecuddy, she fixed her eyes upon the door behind which she imagined North was,and whispered a last prayer for succour. The door opened, and from out thecabin came a figure clad in black. She looked up, and the light of the expiringlamp showed her a face that was not that of the man she hoped to see. Then apair of dark eyes beaming ineffable love and pity were bent upon her, and apair of dripping arms held her above the brine as she had once been held in themisty mysterious days that were gone.

In the terror of that moment the cloud which had so long oppressed her brainpassed from it. The action of the strange man before her completed andexplained the action of the convict chained to the Port Arthur coal-wagons, ofthe convict kneeling in the Norfolk Island torture-chamber. She remembered theterrible experience of Macquarie Harbour. She recalled the evening of theboat-building, when, swung into the air by stalwart arms, she had promised therescuing prisoner to plead for him with her kindred. Regaining her memory thus,all the agony and shame of the man's long life of misery became at onceapparent to her. She understood how her husband had deceived her, and with whatbase injustice and falsehood he had bought her young love. No question as tohow this doubly-condemned prisoner had escaped from the hideous isle ofpunishment she had quitted occurred to her. She asked not—even in herthoughts—how it had been given to him to supplant the chaplain in hisplace on board the vessel. She only considered, in her sudden awakening, thestory of his wrongs, remembered only his marvellous fortitude and love, knewonly, in this last instant of her pure, ill-fated life, that as he had savedher once from starvation and death, so had he come again to save her from sinand from despair. Whoever has known a deadly peril will remember how swiftlythought then travelled back through scenes clean forgotten, and will understandhow Sylvia's retrospective vision merged the past into the actual before her,how the shock of recovered memory subsided in the grateful utterance of otherdays—"Good Mr. Dawes!"

The eyes of the man and woman met in one long, wild gaze. Sylvia stretchedout her white hands and smiled, and Richard Devine understood in his turn thestory of the young girl's joyless life, and knew how she had beensacrificed.

In the great crisis of our life, when, brought face to face withannihilation, we are suspended gasping over the great emptiness of death, webecome conscious that the Self which we think we knew so well has strange andunthought-of capacities. To describe a tempest of the elements is not easy, butto describe a tempest of the soul is impossible. Amid the fury of such atempest, a thousand memories, each bearing in its breast the corpse of somedead deed whose influence haunts us yet, are driven like feathers before theblast, as unsubstantial and as unregarded. The mists which shroud ourself—knowledge become transparent, and we are smitten with suddenlightning-like comprehension of our own misused power over our fate.

This much we feel and know, but who can coldly describe the hurricane whichthus o'erwhelms him? As well ask the drowned mariner to tell of the marvels ofmid-sea when the great deeps swallowed him and the darkness of deathencompassed him round about. These two human beings felt that they had donewith life. Together thus, alone in the very midst and presence of death, thedistinctions of the world they were about to leave disappeared. Then visiongrew clear. They felt as beings whose bodies had already perished, and as theyclasped hands their freed souls, recognizing each the loveliness of the other,rushed tremblingly together.

Borne before the returning whirlwind, an immense wave, which glimmered inthe darkness, spouted up and towered above the wreck. The wretches who yetclung to the deck looked shuddering up into the bellying greenness, and knewthat the end was come.

END OF BOOK FOUR

EPILOGUE.

At day-dawn the morning after the storm, the rays of the rising sunfell upon an object which floated on the surface of the water not far fromwhere the schooner had foundered.

This object was a portion of the mainmast head of the Lady Franklin, andentangled in the rigging were two corpses—a man and a woman. The arms ofthe man were clasped round the body of the woman, and her head lay on hisbreast. The Prison Island appeared but as a long low line on the distanthorizon. The tempest was over. As the sun rose higher the air grew balmy, theocean placid; and, golden in the rays of the new risen morning, the wreck andits burden drifted out to sea.

APPENDIX.

BOOK ONE:

CHAPTERS I,IV,V,VII. Report of the Commission of Inquiry into the state ofthe colony of New South Wales. Printed by order of the House of Commons,1822.

"Two Voyages to New South Wales and Van Diemen's Land", by Thomas Reid[Surgeon on board the Neptune and Morley transport ships], Member of the RoyalCollege of Surgeons in London, and Surgeon in the Royal Navy. London: Longmanand Co., 1822.

"Narrative of a Visit to the Australian Colonies", by James Backhouse.London: Hamilton, Adams and Co., 1843.

Report of a Select Committee on Transportation. Printed by order of theHouse of Commons, 1838. [Evidence of Colonel HenryBreton.—Q.2,431-2,436.]

BOOK TWO:

CHAPTERS I,II,III. Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1838. Evidenceof John Barnes, Esq., pp.37-49. Also Appendix to above Report, I., No.56,B.

"Tasmanian Journal of Natural Science", etc., vol. ii. Account of MacquarieHarbour, by T. G. Lempriere, Esq., A.D.C.G., pp.17, 107, 200. Tasmania: HenryDowling. London: John Murray, 1846.

"Van Diemen's Land Anniversary and Hobart Town Almanac, 1831." Account ofMacquarie Harbour, by James Ross, p.262. Hobart Town: James Ross, 1832.

"Meliora", April, 1861—"Our Convict System": case of Charles Anderson,chained to a rock for two years in irons. See also "Our Convicts", p.233,vol.i., Mary Carpenter. Longmans, 1864.

"Backhouse's Narrative" [ut supra] chapters iii., iv. Files of Hobart TownCourier, 1827-8, more especially October 23 and December 7, 1827, and February2, 1828.

CHAPTERS IV. and VIII. Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1838, pp.353, 354, 355.

CHAPTERS IX., XV., XVII. "Tasmanian Journal" [ut supra], vol.i.: Account ofMacquarie Harbour, by T. G. Lempriere, Esq. [ut supra]. The seizure of theCypress (sic.), pp.366-7. Escape of Morgan and Popjoy, p.369. The seizure ofthe Frederick, pp.371-375.

"Van Diemen's Land Annual", 1838: Narrative of the Sufferings and Adventuresof certain of Ten Convicts, etc., pp.1-11. Hobart Town: James Ross, 1838.

"Old Tales of a Young Country", by Marcus Clarke: The Last of MacquarieHarbour, pp. 141-146. The Seizure of the Cyprus, pp.133-140. Melbourne: GeorgeRobertson, 1871.

BOOK THREE:

CHAPTER II. Transportation: Copy of a communication upon the subject ofTransportation addressed to Earl Grey by the Lord Bishop of Tasmania. Reprintedfor private distribution to the heads of families only. Launceston: HenryDowling, 1848.

Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1837. Evidence of Ernest AugustusSlade, Esq.—Q.870. Ibidem, 1838: Evidence of James Mudie,Esq.—Q.804-813.

CHAPTER IX. Backhouse's Narrative [ut supra]: Appendix, lxxvi.

CHAPTER X. "Van Diemen 's Land Annual", 1838 [ut supra], pp.12-33. OldTales, etc, [ut supra], The Last of Macquarie Harbour, pp.147-156.

CHAPTER XV. Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1838: Evidence of E. A.Slade, Esq.-Q.1,882-1,892. Ibidem: Appendix No.ii., E.

CHAPTER XX. Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1837: Evidence of JohnRussell, Esq., Assist.-Surgeon 63rd Regiment.—Q.426-615. Ibidem: Evidenceof Colonel Geo. Arthur—Q.4,510-4,548.

CHAPTERS XXIII., XXIV., XXVI. "The Adventures of Martin Cash, theBushranger." Hobart Town: J. L. Burke, 1870. pp.64-70.

"Van Dieman's Land Annual" [ut supra], 1829: Visit to Port Arthur. Accountof the Devil's Blow-Hole.

CHAPTER XXVII. Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1832, Appendix I.,No.56 C. and D. Deposition of Alexander Pierce and official statements of trialand execution of Pierce and Cox for murder and cannibalism.

"The Bushrangers,", by James Bonwick, Esq. Article-"Port Arthur"

BOOK IV.

CHAPTERS III., IV. Sessional Papers printed by order of the House of Lords,1847. Enclosure to No. XI. Extract of a paper by the Rev. T. B. Naylor.Enclosure 3 in No.XIV. Copy of Report [dated Hobart Town, 20th June, 1846] fromRobert Pringle Stewart, Esq.: [officer appointed by the Lieut.-Governor of VanDieman's Land, to inspect the penal settlement of Norfolk Island] to theComptroller-General.

House of Lords Report of a Commission on the execution of Criminal Law,1847, Evidence of the Lord Bishop of Tasmania—Q.4,795—4,904 and5,085—5,130.

Despatch of His Excellency Sir William Denison to Secretary of State, 10thJuly, 1847.

Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1838: Evidence of the Very Rev. Wm.Ullathorne, D.D.—Q.150-318.

Report of House of Lords [ut supra], 1847: Evidence of Albert CharlesStonor, Esq., Crown Solicitor of New South Wales— Q.5,174-5,197. Alsoevidence of Rev. Wm. Wilson, D.D.—Q.5,545-5,568.

Correspondence relating to the dismissal of the Rev. T. Rogers from hischaplaincy at Norfolk Island; for private circulation. Launceston: HenryDowling, 1846.

"Backhouse's Voyages" [ut supra]

CHAPTERS VII., VIII., IX., XII. Adventures of Martin Cash [ut supra],pp.133-141; Cases of George Armstrong, "Pine Tree Jack", and AlexanderCampbell.

Punishment of the "gag" and "bridle". Correspondence relating to the Rev. T.Rogers [ut supra], pp. 41-43.

Punishment of the "gag" and "bridle".

Report of a Select Committee [ut supra], 1838: Evidence of the Very Rev. Wm.Ullathorne, D.D.—Q.267:— "As I mentioned the names of those men whowere to die, they one after another, as their names were pronounced, dropped ontheir knees and thanked God that they were to be delivered from that horribleplace, whilst the others remained standing mute, weeping. It was the mosthorrible scene I have ever witnessed."

Ibidem: Evidence of Colonel George Arthur.—Q.4,548.

Ibidem: Evidence of Sir Francis Forbes.—Q.1,119.

Ibidem: Q.1,335-1,343:—"...Two or three men murdered theirfellow-prisoners, with the certainty of being detected and executed, apparentlywithout malice and with very little excitement, stating that they knew thatthey should be hanged, but it was better than being where they were."

THE END

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