But when he examined the yacht with a sailor’s eye, the quartermaster of

the BRITANNIA was as enthusiastic about it as Paddy. He went down into

the hold, inspected the screw department and the engine-room, examining

the engine thoroughly, and inquired about its power and consumption. He

explored the coal-bunkers, the store-room, the powder-store, and armory,

in which last he seemed to be particularly attracted by a cannon mounted

on the forecastle. Glenarvan saw he had to do with a man who understood

such matters, as was evident from his questions. Ayrton concluded his

investigations by a survey of the masts and rigging.

“You have a fine vessel, my Lord,” he said after his curiosity was

satisfied.

“A good one, and that is best,” replied Glenarvan.

“And what is her tonnage?”

“Two hundred and ten tons.”

“I don’t think I am far out,” continued Ayrton, “in judging her speed at

fifteen knots. I should say she could do that easily.”

“Say seventeen,” put in John Mangles, “and you’ve hit the mark.”

“Seventeen!” exclaimed the quartermaster. “Why, not a man-of-war--not

the best among them, I mean--could chase her!”

“Not one,” replied Mangles. “The DUNCAN is a regular racing yacht, and

would never let herself be beaten.”

“Even at sailing?” asked Ayrton.

“Even at sailing.”

“Well, my Lord, and you too, captain,” returned Ayrton, “allow a sailor

who knows what a ship is worth, to compliment you on yours.”

“Stay on board of her, then, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan; “it rests with

yourself to call it yours.”

“I will think of it, my Lord,” was all Ayrton’s reply.

Just then M. Olbinett came to announce dinner, and his Lordship repaired

with his guests to the saloon.

“That Ayrton is an intelligent man,” said Paganel to the Major.

“Too intelligent!” muttered McNabbs, who, without any apparent reason,

had taken a great dislike to the face and manners of the quartermaster.

During the dinner, Ayrton gave some interesting details about the

Australian continent, which he knew perfectly. He asked how many sailors

were going to accompany the expedition, and seemed astonished to hear

that only two were going. He advised Glenarvan to take all his best men,

and even urged him to do it, which advice, by the way, ought to have

removed the Major’s suspicion.

“But,” said Glenarvan, “our journey is not dangerous, is it?”

“Not at all,” replied Ayrton, quickly.

“Well then, we’ll have all the men we can on board. Hands will be wanted

to work the ship, and to help in the repairs. Besides, it is of the

utmost importance that she should meet us to the very day, at whatever

place may be ultimately selected. Consequently, we must not lessen her

crew.”

Ayrton said nothing more, as if convinced his Lordship was right.

When evening came, Scotch and Irish separated. Ayrton and Paddy O’Moore

and family returned home. Horses and wagons were to be ready the next

day, and eight o’clock in the morning was fixed for starting.

Lady Helena and Mary Grant soon made their preparations. They had less

to do than Jacques Paganel, for he spent half the night in arranging,

and wiping, and rubbing up the lenses of his telescope. Of course, next

morning he slept on till the Major’s stentorian voice roused him.

The luggage was already conveyed to the farm, thanks to John Mangles,

and a boat was waiting to take the passengers. They were soon seated,

and the young captain gave his final orders to Tom Austin, his chief

officer. He impressed upon him that he was to wait at Melbourne for Lord

Glenarvan’s commands, and to obey them scrupulously, whatever they might

be.

The old sailor told John he might rely on him, and, in the name of the

men, begged to offer his Lordship their best wishes for the success of

this new expedition.

A storm of hurrahs burst forth from the yacht as the boat rowed off. In

ten minutes the shore was reached, and a quarter of an hour afterward

the Irishman’s farm. All was ready. Lady Helena was enchanted with her

installation. The huge chariot, with its primitive wheels and massive

planks, pleased her particularly. The six bullocks, yoked in pairs, had

a patriarchal air about them which took her fancy. Ayrton, goad in hand,

stood waiting the orders of this new master.

“My word,” said Paganel, “this is a famous vehicle; it beats all the

mail-coaches in the world. I don’t know a better fashion of traveling

than in a mountebank’s caravan--a movable house, which goes or

stops wherever you please. What can one wish better? The Samaratians

understood that, and never traveled in any other way.”

“Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “I hope I shall have the pleasure

of seeing you in my SALONS.”

“Assuredly, madam, I should count it an honor. Have you fixed the day?”

“I shall be at home every day to my friends,” replied Lady Helena; “and

you are--”

“The most devoted among them all,” interrupted Paganel, gaily.

These mutual compliments were interrupted by the arrival of the seven

horses, saddled and ready. They were brought by Paddy’s sons, and Lord

Glenarvan paid the sum stipulated for his various purchases, adding his

cordial thanks, which the worthy Irishman valued at least as much as his

golden guineas.

The signal was given to start, and Lady Helena and Mary took their

places in the reserved compartment. Ayrton seated himself in front, and

Olbinett scrambled in among the luggage. The rest of the party, well

armed with carbines and revolvers, mounted their horses. Ayrton gave

a peculiar cry, and his team set off. The wagon shook and the planks

creaked, and the axles grated in the naves of the wheels; and before

long the hospitable farm of the Irishman was out of sight.

CHAPTER IX A COUNTRY OF PARADOXES

IT was the 23d of December, 1864, a dull, damp, dreary month in the

northern hemisphere; but on the Australian continent it might be called

June. The hottest season of the year had already commenced, and the

sun’s rays were almost tropical, when Lord Glenarvan started on his new

expedition.

Most fortunately the 37th parallel did not cross the immense deserts,

inaccessible regions, which have cost many martyrs to science already.

Glenarvan could never have encountered them. He had only to do with the

southern part of Australia--viz., with a narrow portion of the province

of Adelaide, with the whole of Victoria, and with the top of the

reversed triangle which forms New South Wales.

It is scarcely sixty-two miles from Cape Bernouilli to the frontiers

of Victoria. It was not above a two days’ march, and Ayrton reckoned on

their sleeping next night at Apsley, the most westerly town of Victoria.

The commencement of a journey is always marked by ardor, both in the

horses and the horsemen. This is well enough in the horsemen, but if the

horses are to go far, their speed must be moderated and their strength

husbanded. It was, therefore, fixed that the average journey every day

should not be more than from twenty-five to thirty miles.

Besides, the pace of the horses must be regulated by the slower pace of

the bullocks, truly mechanical engines which lose in time what they gain

in power. The wagon, with its passengers and provisions, was the very

center of the caravan, the moving fortress. The horsemen might act as

scouts, but must never be far away from it.

As no special marching order had been agreed upon, everybody was at

liberty to follow his inclinations within certain limits. The hunters

could scour the plain, amiable folks could talk to the fair occupants

of the wagon, and philosophers could philosophize. Paganel, who was all

three combined, had to be and was everywhere at once.

The march across Adelaide presented nothing of any particular interest.

A succession of low hills rich in dust, a long stretch of what they call

in Australia “bush,” several prairies covered with a small prickly bush,

considered a great dainty by the ovine tribe, embraced many miles. Here

and there they noticed a species of sheep peculiar to New

Holland--sheep with pig’s heads, feeding between the posts of the

telegraph line recently made between Adelaide and the coast.

Up to this time there had been a singular resemblance in the country to

the monotonous plains of the Argentine Pampas. There was the same grassy

flat soil, the same sharply-defined horizon against the sky. McNabbs

declared they had never changed countries; but Paganel told him to wait,

and he would soon see a difference. And on the faith of this assurance

marvelous things were expected by the whole party.

In this fashion, after a march of sixty miles in two days, the caravan

reached the parish of Apsley, the first town in the Province of Victoria

in the Wimerra district.

The wagon was put up at the Crown Inn. Supper was soon smoking on the

table. It consisted solely of mutton served up in various ways.

They all ate heartily, but talked more than they ate, eagerly asking

Paganel questions about the wonders of the country they were just

beginning to traverse. The amiable geographer needed no pressing, and

told them first that this part of it was called Australia Felix.

“Wrongly named!” he continued. “It had better have been called rich,

for it is true of countries, as individuals, that riches do not make

happiness. Thanks to her gold mines, Australia has been abandoned to

wild devastating adventurers. You will come across them when we reach

the gold fields.”

“Is not the colony of Victoria of but a recent origin?” asked Lady

Glenarvan.

“Yes, madam, it only numbers thirty years of existence. It was on the

6th of June, 1835, on a Tuesday--”

“At a quarter past seven in the evening,” put in the Major, who

delighted in teasing the Frenchman about his precise dates.

“No, at ten minutes past seven,” replied the geographer, gravely, “that

Batman and Falckner first began a settlement at Port Phillip, the bay

on which the large city of Melbourne now stands. For fifteen years

the colony was part of New South Wales, and recognized Sydney as the

capital; but in 1851, she was declared independent, and took the name of

Victoria.”

“And has greatly increased in prosperity since then, I believe,” said

Glenarvan.

“Judge for yourself, my noble friend,” replied Paganel. “Here are the

numbers given by the last statistics; and let McNabbs say as he likes, I

know nothing more eloquent than statistics.”

“Go on,” said the Major.

“Well, then, in 1836, the colony of Port Phillip had 224 inhabitants.

To-day the province of Victoria numbers 550,000. Seven millions of

vines produce annually 121,000 gallons of wine. There are 103,000

horses spreading over the plains, and 675,272 horned cattle graze in her

wide-stretching pastures.”

“Is there not also a certain number of pigs?” inquired McNabbs.

“Yes, Major, 79,625.”

“And how many sheep?”

“7,115,943, McNabbs.”

“Including the one we are eating at this moment.”

“No, without counting that, since it is three parts devoured.”

“Bravo, Monsieur Paganel,” exclaimed Lady Helena, laughing heartily. “It

must be owned you are posted up in geographical questions, and my cousin

McNabbs need not try and find you tripping.”

“It is my calling, Madam, to know this sort of thing, and to give you

the benefit of my information when you please. You may therefore believe

me when I tell you that wonderful things are in store for you in this

strange country.”

“It does not look like it at present,” said McNabbs, on purpose to tease

Paganel.

“Just wait, impatient Major,” was his rejoinder. “You have hardly put

your foot on the frontier, when you turn round and abuse it. Well, I say

and say again, and will always maintain that this is the most curious

country on the earth. Its formation, and nature, and products, and

climate, and even its future disappearance have amazed, and are now

amazing, and will amaze, all the SAVANTS in the world. Think, my

friends, of a continent, the margin of which, instead of the center,

rose out of the waves originally like a gigantic ring, which encloses,

perhaps, in its center, a sea partly evaporated, the waves of which are

drying up daily; where humidity does not exist either in the air or in

the soil; where the trees lose their bark every year, instead of their

leaves; where the leaves present their sides to the sun and not

their face, and consequently give no shade; where the wood is often

incombustible, where good-sized stones are dissolved by the rain; where

the forests are low and the grasses gigantic; where the animals

are strange; where quadrupeds have beaks, like the echidna, or

ornithorhynchus, and naturalists have been obliged to create a special

order for them, called monotremes; where the kangaroos leap on unequal

legs, and sheep have pigs’ heads; where foxes fly about from tree

to tree; where the swans are black; where rats make nests; where

the bower-bird opens her reception-rooms to receive visits from her

feathered friends; where the birds astonish the imagination by the

variety of their notes and their aptness; where one bird serves for a

clock, and another makes a sound like a postilion cracking of a whip,

and a third imitates a knife-grinder, and a fourth the motion of a

pendulum; where one laughs when the sun rises, and another cries when

the sun sets! Oh, strange, illogical country, land of paradoxes and

anomalies, if ever there was one on earth--the learned botanist Grimard

was right when he said, ‘There is that Australia, a sort of parody,

or rather a defiance of universal laws in the face of the rest of the

world.’”

Paganel’s tirade was poured forth in the most impetuous manner, and

seemed as if it were never coming to an end. The eloquent secretary of

the Geographical Society was no longer master of himself. He went on and

on, gesticulating furiously, and brandishing his fork to the imminent

danger of his neighbors. But at last his voice was drowned in a thunder

of applause, and he managed to stop.

Certainly after such an enumeration of Australian peculiarities, he

might have been left in peace but the Major said in the coolest tone

possible: “And is that all, Paganel?”

“No, indeed not,” rejoined the Frenchman, with renewed vehemence.

“What!” exclaimed Lady Helena; “there are more wonders still in

Australia?”

“Yes, Madam, its climate. It is even stranger than its productions.”

“Is it possible?” they all said.

“I am not speaking of the hygienic qualities of the climate,” continued

Paganel, “rich as it is in oxygen and poor in azote. There are no damp

winds, because the trade winds blow regularly on the coasts, and most

diseases are unknown, from typhus to measles, and chronic affections.”

“Still, that is no small advantage,” said Glenarvan.

“No doubt; but I am not referring to that, but to one quality it has

which is incomparable.”

“And what is that?”

“You will never believe me.”

“Yes, we will,” exclaimed his auditors, their curiosity aroused by this

preamble.

“Well, it is--”

“It is what?”

“It is a moral regeneration.”

“A moral regeneration?”

“Yes,” replied the SAVANT, in a tone of conviction. “Here metals do not

get rust on them by exposure to the air, nor men. Here the pure, dry

atmosphere whitens everything rapidly, both linen and souls. The virtue

of the climate must have been well known in England when they determined

to send their criminals here to be reformed.”

“What! do you mean to say the climate has really any such influence?”

said Lady Helena.

“Yes, Madam, both on animals and men.”

“You are not joking, Monsieur Paganel?”

“I am not, Madam. The horses and the cattle here are of incomparable

docility. You see it?”

“It is impossible!”

“But it is a fact. And the convicts transported into this reviving,

salubrious air, become regenerated in a few years. Philanthropists know

this. In Australia all natures grow better.”

“But what is to become of you then, Monsieur Paganel, in this privileged

country--you who are so good already?” said Lady Helena. “What will you

turn out?”

“Excellent, Madam, just excellent, and that’s all.”

CHAPTER X AN ACCIDENT

THE next day, the 24th of December, they started at daybreak. The heat

was already considerable, but not unbearable, and the road was smooth

and good, and allowed the cavalcade to make speedy progress. In the

evening they camped on the banks of the White Lake, the waters of which

are brackish and undrinkable.

Jacques Paganel was obliged to own that the name of this lake was a

complete misnomer, for the waters were no more white than the Black Sea

is black, or the Red Sea red, or the Yellow River yellow, or the Blue

Mountains blue. However, he argued and disputed the point with all the

_amour propre_ of a geographer, but his reasoning made no impression.

M. Olbinett prepared the evening meal with his accustomed punctuality,

and after this was dispatched, the travelers disposed themselves for

the night in the wagon and in the tent, and were soon sleeping soundly,

notwithstanding the melancholy howling of the “dingoes,” the jackals of

Australia.

A magnificent plain, thickly covered with chrysanthemums, stretched

out beyond the lake, and Glenarvan and his friends would gladly have

explored its beauties when they awoke next morning, but they had to

start. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but one

stretch of prairie, enameled with flower, in all the freshness and

abundance of spring. The blue flowers of the slender-leaved flax,

combined with the bright hues of the scarlet acanthus, a flower peculiar

to the country.

A few cassowaries were bounding over the plain, but it was impossible to

get near them. The Major was fortunate enough, however, to hit one very

rare animal with a ball in the leg. This was the jabiru, a species which

is fast disappearing, the gigantic crane of the English colonies. This

winged creature was five feet high, and his wide, conical, extremely

pointed beak, measured eighteen inches in length. The violet and purple

tints of his head contrasted vividly with the glossy green of his neck,

and the dazzling whiteness of his throat, and the bright red of his

long legs. Nature seems to have exhausted in its favor all the primitive

colors on her palette.

Great admiration was bestowed on this bird, and the Major’s spoil would

have borne the honors of the day, had not Robert come across an animal

a few miles further on, and bravely killed it. It was a shapeless

creature, half porcupine, half ant-eater, a sort of unfinished animal

belonging to the first stage of creation. A long glutinous extensible

tongue hung out of his jaws in search of the ants, which formed its

principal food.

“It is an echidna,” said Paganel. “Have you ever seen such a creature?”

“It is horrible,” replied Glenarvan.

“Horrible enough, but curious, and, what’s more, peculiar to Australia.

One might search for it in vain in any other part of the world.”

Naturally enough, the geographer wished to preserve this interesting

specimen of monotremata, and wanted to stow it away in the luggage;

but M. Olbinett resented the idea so indignantly, that the SAVANT was

obliged to abandon his project.

About four o’clock in the afternoon, John Mangles descried an enormous

column of smoke about three miles off, gradually overspreading the

whole horizon. What could be the cause of this phenomenon? Paganel was

inclined to think it was some description of meteor, and his lively

imagination was already in search of an explanation, when Ayrton cut

short all his conjectures summarily, by announcing that the cloud of

dust was caused by a drove of cattle on the road.

The quartermaster proved right, for as the cloud came nearer, quite

a chorus of bleatings and neighings, and bel-lowings escaped from it,

mingled with the loud tones of a human voice, in the shape of cries, and

whistles, and vociferations.

Presently a man came out of the cloud. This was the leader-in-chief

of the four-footed army. Glenarvan advanced toward him, and friendly

relations were speedily established between them. The leader, or to

give him his proper designation, the stock-keeper, was part owner of the

drove. His name was Sam Machell, and he was on his way from the eastern

provinces to Portland Bay.

The drove numbered 12,075 head in all, or l,000 bullocks, 11,000 sheep,

and 75 horses. All these had been bought in the Blue Mountains in a

poor, lean condition, and were going to be fatted up on the rich pasture

lands of Southern Australia, and sold again at a great profit. Sam

Machell expected to get pounds 2 on each bullock, and 10s. on every

sheep, which would bring him in pounds 3,750. This was doing good

business; but what patience and energy were required to conduct such a

restive, stubborn lot to their destination, and what fatigues must have

to be endured. Truly the gain was hardly earned.

Sam Machell told his history in a few words, while the drove continued

their march among the groves of mimosas. Lady Helena and Mary and the

rest of the party seated themselves under the shade of a wide-spreading

gum-tree, and listened to his recital.

It was seven months since Sam Machell had started. He had gone at the

rate of ten miles a day, and his interminable journey would last three

months longer. His assistants in the laborious task comprised twenty

dogs and thirty men, five of whom were blacks, and very serviceable in

tracking up any strayed beasts. Six wagons made the rear-guard. All the

men were armed with stockwhips, the handles of which are eighteen inches

long, and the lash nine feet, and they move about among the ranks,

bringing refractory animals back into order, while the dogs, the light

cavalry of the regiment, preserved discipline in the wings.

The travelers were struck with the admirable arrangement of the drove.

The different stock were kept apart, for wild sheep and bullocks would

not have got on together at all. The bullocks would never have grazed

where the sheep had passed along, and consequently they had to go first,

divided into two battalions. Five regiments of sheep followed, in charge

of twenty men, and last of all came the horses.

Sam Machell drew the attention of his auditors to the fact that the

real guides of the drove were neither the men nor the dogs, but the oxen

themselves, beasts of superior intelligence, recognized as leaders by

their congenitors. They advanced in front with perfect gravity, choosing

the best route by instinct, and fully alive to their claim to respect.

Indeed, they were obliged to be studied and humored in everything, for

the whole drove obeyed them implicitly. If they took it into their heads

to stop, it was a matter of necessity to yield to their good pleasure,

for not a single animal would move a step till these leaders gave the

signal to set off.

Sundry details, added by the stock-keeper, completed the history of

this expedition, worthy of being written, if not commended by Xenophon

himself. As long as the troop marched over the plains it was well

enough, there was little difficulty or fatigue. The animals fed as they

went along, and slaked their thirst at the numerous creeks that watered

the plains, sleeping at night and making good progress in the day,

always obedient and tractable to the dogs. But when they had to

go through great forests and groves of eucalyptus and mimosas, the

difficulties increased. Platoons, battalions and regiments got all mixed

together or scattered, and it was a work of time to collect them again.

Should a “leader” unfortunately go astray, he had to be found, cost what

it might, on pain of a general disbandment, and the blacks were often

long days in quest of him, before their search was successful. During

the heavy rains the lazy beasts refused to stir, and when violent storms

chanced to occur, the creatures became almost mad with terror, and were

seized with a wild, disorderly panic.

However, by dint of energy and ambition, the stock-keeper triumphed

over these difficulties, incessantly renewed though they were. He kept

steadily on; mile after mile of plains and woods, and mountains, lay

behind. But in addition to all his other qualities, there was one higher

than all that he specially needed when they came to rivers. This was

patience--patience that could stand any trial, and not only could hold

out for hours and days, but for weeks. The stock-keeper would be himself

forced to wait on the banks of a stream that might have been crossed

at once. There was nothing to hinder but the obstinacy of the herd.

The bullocks would taste the water and turn back. The sheep fled in all

directions, afraid to brave the liquid element. The stock-keeper hoped

when night came he might manage them better, but they still refused to

go forward. The rams were dragged in by force, but the sheep would not

follow. They tried what thirst would do, by keeping them without drink

for several days, but when they were brought to the river again, they

simply quenched their thirst, and declined a more intimate acquaintance

with the water. The next expedient employed was to carry all the lambs

over, hoping the mothers would be drawn after them, moved by their

cries. But the lambs might bleat as pitifully as they liked, the mothers

never stirred. Sometimes this state of affairs would last a whole month,

and the stock-keeper would be driven to his wits’ end by his bleating,

bellowing, neighing army. Then all of a sudden, one fine day, without

rhyme or reason, a detachment would take it into their heads to make

a start across, and the only difficulty now was to keep the whole herd

from rushing helter-skelter after them. The wildest confusion set in

among the ranks, and numbers of the animals were drowned in the passage.

Such was the narrative of Sam Machell. During its recital, a

considerable part of the troop had filed past in good order. It was time

for him to return to his place at their head, that he might be able to

choose the best pasturage. Taking leave of Lord Glenarvan, he sprang on

a capital horse of the native breed, that one of his men held waiting

for him, and after shaking hands cordially with everybody all round,

took his departure. A few minutes later, nothing was visible of the

stock-keeper and his troop but a cloud of dust.

The wagon resumed its course in the opposite direction, and did not stop

again till they halted for the night at the foot of Mount Talbot.

Paganel made the judicious observation that it was the 25th of December,

the Christmas Day so dear to English hearts. But the steward had not

forgotten it, and an appetizing meal was soon ready under the tent, for

which he deserved and received warm compliments from the guests. Indeed,

M. Olbinett had quite excelled himself on this occasion. He produced

from his stores such an array of European dishes as is seldom seen

in the Australian desert. Reindeer hams, slices of salt beef, smoked

salmon, oat cakes, and barley meal scones; tea _ad libitum_, and whisky

in abundance, and several bottles of port, composed this astonishing

meal. The little party might have thought themselves in the grand

dining-hall of Malcolm Castle, in the heart of the Highlands of

Scotland.

The next day, at 11 A. M., the wagon reached the banks of the Wimerra on

the 143d meridian.

The river, half a mile in width, wound its limpid course between tall

rows of gum-trees and acacias. Magnificent specimens of the MYRTACEA,

among others, the _metroside-ros speciosa_, fifteen feet high, with long

drooping branches, adorned with red flowers. Thousands of birds, the

lories, and greenfinches, and gold-winged pigeons, not to speak of the

noisy paroquets, flew about in the green branches. Below, on the bosom

of the water, were a couple of shy and unapproachable black swans. This

_rara avis_ of the Australian rivers soon disappeared among the

windings of the Wimerra, which water the charming landscape in the most

capricious manner.

The wagon stopped on a grassy bank, the long fringes of which dipped

in the rapid current. There was neither raft nor bridge, but cross over

they must. Ayrton looked about for a practicable ford. About a quarter

of a mile up the water seemed shallower, and it was here they determined

to try to pass over. The soundings in different parts showed a depth of

three feet only, so that the wagon might safely enough venture.

“I suppose there is no other way of fording the river?” said Glenarvan

to the quartermaster.

“No, my Lord; but the passage does not seem dangerous. We shall manage

it.”

“Shall Lady Glenarvan and Miss Grant get out of the wagon?”

“Not at all. My bullocks are surefooted, and you may rely on me for

keeping them straight.”

“Very well, Ayrton; I can trust you.”

The horsemen surrounded the ponderous vehicle, and all stepped boldly

into the current. Generally, when wagons have to ford rivers, they have

empty casks slung all round them, to keep them floating on the water;

but they had no such swimming belt with them on this occasion, and they

could only depend on the sagacity of the animals and the prudence of

Ayrton, who directed the team. The Major and the two sailors were some

feet in advance. Glenarvan and John Mangles went at the sides of the

wagon, ready to lend any assistance the fair travelers might require,

and Paganel and Robert brought up the rear.

All went well till they reached the middle of the Wimerra, but then the

hollow deepened, and the water rose to the middle of the wheels. The

bullocks were in danger of losing their footing, and dragging with

them the oscillating vehicle. Ayrton devoted himself to his task

courageously. He jumped into the water, and hanging on by the bullocks’

horns, dragged them back into the right course.

Suddenly the wagon made a jolt that it was impossible to prevent; a

crack was heard, and the vehicle began to lean over in a most precarious

manner. The water now rose to the ladies’ feet; the whole concern began

to float, though John Mangles and Lord Glenarvan hung on to the side. It

was an anxious moment.

Fortunately a vigorous effort drove the wagon toward the opposite shore,

and the bank began to slope upward, so that the horses and bullocks were

able to regain their footing, and soon the whole party found themselves

on the other side, glad enough, though wet enough too.

The fore part of the wagon, however, was broken by the jolt, and

Glenarvan’s horse had lost a shoe.

This was an accident that needed to be promptly repaired. They looked at

each other hardly knowing what to do, till Ayrton proposed he should

go to Black Point Station, twenty miles further north, and bring back a

blacksmith with him.

“Yes, go, my good fellow,” said Glenarvan. “How long will it take you to

get there and back?”

“About fifteen hours,” replied Ayrton, “but not longer.”

“Start at once, then, and we will camp here, on the banks of the

Wimerra, till you return.”

CHAPTER XI CRIME OR CALAMITY

IT was not without apprehension that the Major saw Ayrton quit the

Wimerra camp to go and look for a blacksmith at the Black Point Station.

But he did not breathe a word of his private misgivings, and contented

himself with watching the neighborhood of the river; nothing disturbed

the repose of those tranquil glades, and after a short night the sun

reappeared on the horizon.

As to Glenarvan, his only fear was lest Ayrton should return alone. If

they fail to find a workman, the wagon could not resume the journey.

This might end in a delay of many days, and Glenarvan, impatient to

succeed, could brook no delay, in his eagerness to attain his object.

Ayrton luckily had lost neither his time nor his trouble. He appeared

next morning at daybreak, accompanied by a man who gave himself out as

the blacksmith from Black Point Station. He was a powerful fellow,

and tall, but his features were of a low, brutal type, which did not

prepossess anyone in his favor. But that was nothing, provided he knew

his business. He scarcely spoke, and certainly he did not waste his

breath in useless words.

“Is he a good workman?” said John Mangles to the quartermaster.

“I know no more about him than you do, captain,” said Ayrton. “But we

shall see.”

The blacksmith set to work. Evidently that was his trade, as they could

plainly see from the way he set about repairing the forepart of the

wagon. He worked skilfully and with uncommon energy. The Major observed

that the flesh of his wrists was deeply furrowed, showing a ring of

extravasated blood. It was the mark of a recent injury, which the

sleeve of an old woolen shirt could not conceal. McNabbs questioned the

blacksmith about those sores which looked so painful. The man continued

his work without answering. Two hours more and the damage the carriage

had sustained was made good. As to Glenarvan’s horse, it was soon

disposed of. The blacksmith had had the forethought to bring the shoes

with him. These shoes had a peculiarity which did not escape the Major;

it was a trefoil clumsily cut on the back part. McNabbs pointed it out

to Ayrton.

“It is the Black-Point brand,” said the quartermaster. “That enables

them to track any horses that may stray from the station, and prevents

their being mixed with other herds.”

The horse was soon shod. The blacksmith claimed his wage, and went off

without uttering four words.

Half an hour later, the travelers were on the road. Beyond the grove of

mimosas was a stretch of sparsely timbered country, which quite deserved

its name of “open plain.” Some fragments of quartz and ferruginous

rock lay among the scrub and the tall grass, where numerous flocks were

feeding. Some miles farther the wheels of the wagon plowed deep into

the alluvial soil, where irregular creeks murmured in their beds,

half hidden among giant reeds. By-and-by they skirted vast salt lakes,

rapidly evaporating. The journey was accomplished without trouble, and,

indeed, without fatigue.

Lady Helena invited the horsemen of the party to pay her a visit in

turns, as her reception-room was but small, and in pleasant converse

with this amiable woman they forgot the fatigue of their day’s ride.

Lady Helena, seconded by Miss Mary, did the honors of their ambulatory

house with perfect grace. John Mangles was not forgotten in these daily

invitations, and his somewhat serious conversation was not unpleasing.

The party crossed, in a diagonal direction, the mail-coach road from

Crowland to Horsham, which was a very dusty one, and little used by

pedestrians.

The spurs of some low hills were skirted at the boundary of Talbot

County, and in the evening the travelers reached a point about three

miles from Maryborough. The fine rain was falling, which, in any other

country, would have soaked the ground; but here the air absorbed the

moisture so wonderfully that the camp did not suffer in the least.

Next day, the 29th of December, the march was delayed somewhat by a

succession of little hills, resembling a miniature Switzerland. It was a

constant repetition of up and down hill, and many a jolt besides, all of

which were scarcely pleasant. The travelers walked part of the way, and

thought it no hardship.

At eleven o’clock they arrived at Carisbrook, rather an important

municipality. Ayrton was for passing outside the town without going

through it, in order, he said, to save time. Glenarvan concurred

with him, but Paganel, always eager for novelties, was for visiting

Carisbrook. They gave him his way, and the wagon went on slowly.

Paganel, as was his custom, took Robert with him. His visit to the town

was very short, but it sufficed to give him an exact idea of Australian

towns. There was a bank, a court-house, a market, a church, and a

hundred or so of brick houses, all exactly alike. The whole town was

laid out in squares, crossed with parallel streets in the English

fashion. Nothing could be more simple, nothing less attractive. As the

town grows, they lengthen the streets as we lengthen the trousers of a

growing child, and thus the original symmetry is undisturbed.

Carisbrook was full of activity, a remarkable feature in these towns of

yesterday. It seems in Australia as if towns shot up like trees, owing

to the heat of the sun. Men of business were hurrying along the streets;

gold buyers were hastening to meet the in-coming escort; the precious

metal, guarded by the local police, was coming from the mines at Bendigo

and Mount Alexander. All the little world was so absorbed in its own

interests, that the strangers passed unobserved amid the laborious

inhabitants.

After an hour devoted to visiting Carisbrook, the two visitors rejoined

their companions, and crossed a highly cultivated district. Long

stretches of prairie, known as the “Low Level Plains,” next met their

gaze, dotted with countless sheep, and shepherds’ huts. And then came a

sandy tract, without any transition, but with the abruptness of change

so characteristic of Australian scenery. Mount Simpson and Mount

Terrengower marked the southern point where the boundary of the Loddon

district cuts the 144th meridian.

As yet they had not met with any of the aboriginal tribes living in

the savage state. Glenarvan wondered if the Australians were wanting

in Australia, as the Indians had been wanting in the Pampas of the

Argentine district; but Paganel told him that, in that latitude, the

natives frequented chiefly the Murray Plains, about one hundred miles to

the eastward.

“We are now approaching the gold district,” said he, “in a day or two

we shall cross the rich region of Mount Alexander. It was here that

the swarm of diggers alighted in 1852; the natives had to fly to the

interior. We are in civilized districts without seeing any sign of

it; but our road will, before the day is over, cross the railway which

connects the Murray with the sea. Well, I must confess, a railway in

Australia does seem to me an astonishing thing!”

“And pray, why, Paganel?” said Glenarvan.

“Why? because it jars on one’s ideas. Oh! I know you English are so used

to colonizing distant possessions. You, who have electric telegraphs and

universal exhibitions in New Zealand, you think it is all quite natural.

But it dumb-founders the mind of a Frenchman like myself, and confuses

all one’s notions of Australia!”

“Because you look at the past, and not at the present,” said John

Mangles.

A loud whistle interrupted the discussion. The party were within a mile

of the railway. Quite a number of persons were hastening toward the

railway bridge. The people from the neighboring stations left their

houses, and the shepherds their flocks, and crowded the approaches to

the railway. Every now and then there was a shout, “The railway! the

railway!”

Something serious must have occurred to produce such an agitation.

Perhaps some terrible accident.

Glenarvan, followed by the rest, urged on his horse. In a few minutes he

arrived at Camden Bridge and then he became aware of the cause of such

an excitement.

A fearful accident had occurred; not a collision, but a train had gone

off the line, and then there had been a fall. The affair recalled the

worst disasters of American railways. The river crossed by the railway

was full of broken carriages and the engine. Whether the weight of the

train had been too much for the bridge, or whether the train had gone

off the rails, the fact remained that five carriages out of six fell

into the bed of the Loddon, dragged down by the locomotive. The sixth

carriage, miraculously preserved by the breaking of the coupling chain,

remained on the rails, six feet from the abyss. Below nothing was

discernible but a melancholy heap of twisted and blackened axles,

shattered wagons, bent rails, charred sleepers; the boiler, burst by

the shock, had scattered its plates to enormous distances. From this

shapeless mass of ruins flames and black smoke still rose. After the

fearful fall came fire, more fearful still! Great tracks of blood,

scattered limbs, charred trunks of bodies, showed here and there; none

could guess how many victims lay dead and mangled under those ruins.

Glenarvan, Paganel, the Major, Mangles, mixing with the crowd, heard the

current talk. Everyone tried to account for the accident, while doing

his utmost to save what could be saved.

“The bridge must have broken,” said one.

“Not a bit of it. The bridge is whole enough; they must have forgotten

to close it to let the train pass. That is all.”

It was, in fact, a swing bridge, which opened for the convenience of the

boats. Had the guard, by an unpardonable oversight, omitted to close

it for the passage of the train, so that the train, coming on at full

speed, was precipitated into the Loddon? This hypothesis seemed very

admissible; for although one-half of the bridge lay beneath the ruins of

the train, the other half, drawn up to the opposite shore, hung, still

unharmed, by its chains. No one could doubt that an oversight on the

part of the guard had caused the catastrophe.

The accident had occurred in the night, to the express train which left

Melbourne at 11:45 in the evening. About a quarter past three in the

morning, twenty-five minutes after leaving Castlemaine, it arrived at

Camden Bridge, where the terrible disaster befell. The passengers and

guards of the last and only remaining carriage at once tried to obtain

help. But the telegraph, whose posts were lying on the ground, could not

be worked. It was three hours before the authorities from Castlemaine

reached the scene of the accident, and it was six o’clock in the

morning when the salvage party was organized, under the direction of

Mr. Mitchell, the surveyor-general of the colony, and a detachment of

police, commanded by an inspector. The squatters and their “hands” lent

their aid, and directed their efforts first to extinguishing the fire

which raged in the ruined heap with unconquerable violence. A few

unrecognizable bodies lay on the slope of the embankment, but from that

blazing mass no living thing could be saved. The fire had done its work

too speedily. Of the passengers ten only survived--those in the last

carriage. The railway authorities sent a locomotive to bring them back

to Castlemaine.

Lord Glenarvan, having introduced himself to the surveyor-general,

entered into conversation with him and the inspector of police. The

latter was a tall, thin man, im-perturbably cool, and, whatever he

may have felt, allowed no trace of it to appear on his features. He

contemplated this calamity as a mathematician does a problem; he

was seeking to solve it, and to find the unknown; and when Glenarvan

observed, “This is a great misfortune,” he quietly replied, “Better than

that, my Lord.”

“Better than that?” cried Glenarvan. “I do not understand you.”

“It is better than a misfortune, it is a crime!” he replied, in the same

quiet tone.

Glenarvan looked inquiringly at Mr. Mitchell for a solution. “Yes, my

Lord,” replied the surveyor-general, “our inquiries have resulted in

the conclusion that the catastrophe is the result of a crime. The last

luggage-van has been robbed. The surviving passengers were attacked by

a gang of five or six villains. The bridge was intentionally opened, and

not left open by the negligence of the guard; and connecting with this

fact the guard’s disappearance, we may conclude that the wretched fellow

was an accomplice of these ruffians.”

The police-officer shook his head at this inference.

“You do not agree with me?” said Mr. Mitchell.

“No, not as to the complicity of the guard.”

“Well, but granting that complicity, we may attribute the crime to the

natives who haunt the Murray. Without him the blacks could never have

opened a swing-bridge; they know nothing of its mechanism.”

“Exactly so,” said the police-inspector.

“Well,” added Mr. Mitchell, “we have the evidence of a boatman whose

boat passed Camden Bridge at 10:40 P. M., that the bridge was properly

shut after he passed.”

“True.”

“Well, after that I cannot see any doubt as to the complicity of the

guard.”

The police-officer shook his head gently, but continuously.

“Then you don’t attribute the crime to the natives?”

“Not at all.”

“To whom then?”

Just at this moment a noise was heard from about half a mile up the

river. A crowd had gathered, and quickly increased. They soon reached

the station, and in their midst were two men carrying a corpse. It was

the body of the guard, quite cold, stabbed to the heart. The murderers

had no doubt hoped, by dragging their victim to a distance, that the

police would be put on a wrong scent in their first inquiries. This

discovery, at any rate, justified the doubts of the police-inspector.

The poor blacks had had no hand in the matter.

“Those who dealt that blow,” said he, “were already well used to this

little instrument”; and so saying he produced a pair of “darbies,” a

kind of handcuff made of a double ring of iron secured by a lock. “I

shall soon have the pleasure of presenting them with these bracelets as

a New Year’s gift.”

“Then you suspect--”

“Some folks who came out free in Her Majesty’s ships.”

“What! convicts?” cried Paganel, who recognized the formula employed in

the Australian colonies.

“I thought,” said Glenarvan, “convicts had no right in the province of

Victoria.”

“Bah!” said the inspector, “if they have no right, they take it! They

escape sometimes, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, this lot have come

straight from Perth, and, take my word for it, they will soon be there

again.”

Mr. Mitchell nodded acquiescence in the words of the police-inspector.

At this moment the wagon arrived at the level crossing of the railway.

Glenarvan wished to spare the ladies the horrible spectacle at Camden

Bridge. He took courteous leave of the surveyor-general, and made a sign

to the rest to follow him. “There is no reason,” said he, “for delaying

our journey.”

When they reached the wagon, Glenarvan merely mentioned to Lady Helena

that there had been a railway accident, without a hint of the crime that

had played so great a part in it; neither did he make mention of the

presence of a band of convicts in the neighborhood, reserving that

piece of information solely for Ayrton’s ear. The little procession now

crossed the railway some two hundred yards below the bridge, and then

resumed their eastward course.

CHAPTER XII TOLINE OF THE LACHLAN

ABOUT two miles from the railway, the plain terminated in a range of

low hills, and it was not long before the wagon entered a succession of

narrow gorges and capricious windings, out of which it emerged into a

most charming region, where grand trees, not closely planted, but in

scattered groups, were growing with absolutely tropical luxuriance. As

the party drove on they stumbled upon a little native boy lying fast

asleep beneath the shade of a magnificent banksia. He was dressed

in European garb, and seemed about eight years of age. There was no

mistaking the characteristic features of his race; the crisped hair,

the nearly black skin, the flattened nose, the thick lips, the unusual

length of the arms, immediately classed him among the aborigines of the

interior. But a degree of intelligence appeared in his face that showed

some educational influences must have been at work on his savage,

untamed nature.

Lady Helena, whose interest was greatly excited by this spectacle, got

out of the wagon, followed by Mary, and presently the whole company

surrounded the peaceful little sleeper. “Poor child!” said Mary Grant.

“Is he lost, I wonder, in this desert?”

“I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “he has come a long way to visit this

part. No doubt some he loves are here.”

“But he can’t be left here,” added Robert. “We must--”

His compassionate sentence remained unfinished, for, just at that moment

the child turned over in his sleep, and, to the extreme surprise of

everybody, there was a large label on his shoulders, on which the

following was written:

TOLINE.

To be conducted to Echuca.

Care of Jeffries Smith, Railway Porter.

Prepaid.

“That’s the English all over!” exclaimed Paganel. “They send off a child

just as they would luggage, and book him like a parcel. I heard it was

done, certainly; but I could not believe it before.”

“Poor child!” said Lady Helena. “Could he have been in the train that

got off the line at Camden Bridge? Perhaps his parents are killed, and

he is left alone in the world!”

“I don’t think so, madam,” replied John Mangles. “That card rather goes

to prove he was traveling alone.”

“He is waking up!” said Mary.

And so he was. His eyes slowly opened and then closed again, pained by

the glare of light. But Lady Helena took his hand, and he jumped up

at once and looked about him in bewilderment at the sight of so many

strangers. He seemed half frightened at first, but the presence of Lady

Helena reassured him. “Do you understand English, my little man?” asked

the young lady.

“I understand it and speak it,” replied the child in fluent enough

English, but with a marked accent. His pronunciation was like a

Frenchman’s.

“What is your name?” asked Lady Helena.

“Toline,” replied the little native.

“Toline!” exclaimed Paganel. “Ah! I think that means ‘bark of a tree’ in

Australian.”

Toline nodded, and looked again at the travelers.

“Where do you come from?” inquired Lady Helena.

“From Melbourne, by the railway from Sandhurst.”

“Were you in the accident at Camden Bridge?” said Glenarvan.

“Yes, sir,” was Toline’s reply; “but the God of the Bible protected me.”

“Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, alone; the Reverend Paxton put me in charge of Jeffries Smith; but

unfortunately the poor man was killed.”

“And you did not know any one else on the train?”

“No one, madam; but God watches over children and never forsakes them.”

Toline said this in soft, quiet tones, which went to the heart. When he

mentioned the name of God his voice was grave and his eyes beamed with

all the fervor that animated his young soul.

This religious enthusiasm at so tender an age was easily explained. The

child was one of the aborigines baptized by the English missionaries,

and trained by them in all the rigid principles of the Methodist Church.

His calm replies, proper behavior, and even his somber garb made him

look like a little reverend already.

But where was he going all alone in these solitudes and why had he left

Camden Bridge? Lady Helena asked him about this.

“I was returning to my tribe in the Lachlan,” he replied. “I wished to

see my family again.”

“Are they Australians?” inquired John Mangles.

“Yes, Australians of the Lachlan,” replied Toline.

“Have you a father and mother?” said Robert Grant.

“Yes, my brother,” replied Toline, holding out his hand to little Grant.

Robert was so touched by the word brother that he kissed the black

child, and they were friends forthwith.

The whole party were so interested in these replies of the little

Australian savage that they all sat round him in a listening group.

But the sun had meantime sunk behind the tall trees, and as a few miles

would not greatly retard their progress, and the spot they were in would

be suitable for a halt, Glenarvan gave orders to prepare their camp for

the night at once. Ayrton unfastened the bullocks and turned them out to

feed at will. The tent was pitched, and Olbinett got the supper ready.

Toline consented, after some difficulty, to share it, though he was

hungry enough. He took his seat beside Robert, who chose out all the

titbits for his new friend. Toline accepted them with a shy grace that

was very charming.

The conversation with him, however, was still kept up, for everyone

felt an interest in the child, and wanted to talk to him and hear his

history. It was simple enough. He was one of the poor native children

confided to the care of charitable societies by the neighboring tribes.

The Australian aborigines are gentle and inoffensive, never exhibiting

the fierce hatred toward their conquerors which characterizes the New

Zealanders, and possibly a few of the races of Northern Australia. They

often go to the large towns, such as Adelaide, Sydney and Melbourne,

and walk about in very primitive costume. They go to barter their few

articles of industry, hunting and fishing implements, weapons, etc., and

some of the chiefs, from pecuniary motives, no doubt, willingly leave

their children to profit by the advantages of a gratuitous education in

English.

This was how Toline’s parents had acted. They were true Australian

savages living in the Lachlan, a vast region lying beyond the Murray.

The child had been in Melbourne five years, and during that time had

never once seen any of his own people. And yet the imperishable feeling

of kindred was still so strong in his heart that he had dared to brave

this journey over the wilds to visit his tribe once more, scattered

though perchance it might be, and his family, even should he find it

decimated.

“And after you have kissed your parents, are you coming back to

Melbourne?” asked Lady Glenarvan.

“Yes, Madam,” replied Toline, looking at the lady with a loving

expression.

“And what are you going to be some day?” she continued.

“I am going to snatch my brothers from misery and ignorance. I am going

to teach them, to bring them to know and love God. I am going to be a

missionary.”

Words like those, spoken with such animation from a child of only eight

years, might have provoked a smile in light, scoffing auditors, but they

were understood and appreciated by the grave Scotch, who admired the

courage of this young disciple, already armed for the battle. Even

Paganel was stirred to the depths of his heart, and felt his warmer

sympathy awakened for the poor child.

To speak the truth, up to that moment he did not care much for a savage

in European attire. He had not come to Australia to see Australians

in coats and trousers. He preferred them simply tattooed, and this

conventional dress jarred on his preconceived notions. But the child’s

genuine religious fervor won him over completely. Indeed, the wind-up of

the conversation converted the worthy geographer into his best friend.

It was in reply to a question Lady Helena had asked, that Toline said he

was studying at the Normal School in Melbourne, and that the principal

was the Reverend Mr. Paxton.

“And what do they teach you?” she went on to say.

“They teach me the Bible, and mathematics, and geography.”

Paganel pricked up his ears at this, and said, “Indeed, geography!”

“Yes, sir,” said Toline; “and I had the first prize for geography before

the Christmas holidays.”

“You had the first prize for geography, my boy?”

“Yes, sir. Here it is,” returned Toline, pulling a book out of his

pocket.

It was a bible, 32mo size, and well bound. On the first page was written

the words: “Normal School, Melbourne. First Prize for Geography. Toline

of the Lachlan.”

Paganel was beside himself. An Australian well versed in geography. This

was marvelous, and he could not help kissing Toline on both cheeks, just

as if he had been the Reverend Mr. Paxton himself, on the day of the

distribution of prizes. Paganel need not have been so amazed at this

circumstance, however, for it is frequent enough in Australian schools.

The little savages are very quick in learning geography. They learn it

eagerly, and on the other hand, are perfectly averse to the science of

arithmetic.

Toline could not understand this outburst of affection on the part of

the Frenchman, and looked so puzzled that Lady Helena thought she

had better inform him that Paganel was a celebrated geographer and a

distinguished professor on occasion.

“A professor of geography!” cried Toline. “Oh, sir, do question me!”

“Question you? Well, I’d like nothing better. Indeed, I was going to

do it without your leave. I should very much like to see how they teach

geography in the Normal School of Melbourne.”

“And suppose Toline trips you up, Paganel!” said McNabbs.

“What a likely idea!” exclaimed the geographer. “Trip up the Secretary

of the Geographical Society of France.”

Their examination then commenced, after Paganel had settled his

spectacles firmly on his nose, drawn himself up to his full height, and

put on a solemn voice becoming to a professor.

“Pupil Toline, stand up.”

As Toline was already standing, he could not get any higher, but he

waited modestly for the geographer’s questions.

“Pupil Toline, what are the five divisions of the globe?”

“Oceanica, Asia, Africa, America, and Europe.”

“Perfectly so. Now we’ll take Oceanica first; where are we at this

moment? What are the principal divisions?”

“Australia, belonging to the English; New Zealand, belonging to the

English; Tasmania, belonging to the English. The islands of Chatham,

Auckland, Macquarie, Kermadec, Makin, Maraki, are also belonging to the

English.”

“Very good, and New Caledonia, the Sandwich Islands, the Mendana, the

Pomotou?”

“They are islands under the Protectorate of Great Britain.”

“What!” cried Paganel, “under the Protectorate of Great Britain. I

rather think on the contrary, that France--”

“France,” said the child, with an astonished look.

“Well, well,” said Paganel; “is that what they teach you in the

Melbourne Normal School?”

“Yes, sir. Isn’t it right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, perfectly right. All Oceanica belongs to the English.

That’s an understood thing. Go on.”

Paganel’s face betrayed both surprise and annoyance, to the great

delight of the Major.

“Let us go on to Asia,” said the geographer.

“Asia,” replied Toline, “is an immense country. Capital--Calcutta. Chief

Towns--Bombay, Madras, Calicut, Aden, Malacca, Singapore, Pegu, Colombo.

The Lacca-dive Islands, the Maldives, the Chagos, etc., belonging to the

English.”

“Very good, pupil Toline. And now for Africa.”

“Africa comprises two chief colonies--the Cape on the south, capital

Capetown; and on the west the English settlements, chief city, Sierra

Leone.”

“Capital!” said Paganel, beginning to enter into this perfectly

taught but Anglo-colored fanciful geography. “As to Algeria, Morocco,

Egypt--they are all struck out of the Britannic cities.”

“Let us pass on, pray, to America.”

“It is divided,” said Toline, promptly, “into North and South America.

The former belongs to the English in Canada, New Brunswick, New

Scotland, and the United States, under the government of President

Johnson.”

“President Johnson,” cried Paganel, “the successor of the great and

good Lincoln, assassinated by a mad fanatic of the slave party. Capital;

nothing could be better. And as to South America, with its Guiana, its

archipelago of South Shetland, its Georgia, Jamaica, Trinidad, etc.,

that belongs to the English, too! Well, I’ll not be the one to dispute

that point! But, Toline, I should like to know your opinion of Europe,

or rather your professor’s.”

“Europe?” said Toline not at all understanding Paganel’s excitement.

“Yes, Europe! Who does Europe belong to?”

“Why, to the English,” replied Toline, as if the fact was quite settled.

“I much doubt it,” returned Paganel. “But how’s that, Toline, for I want

to know that?”

“England, Ireland, Scotland, Malta, Jersey and Guern-sey, the Ionian

Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys.”

“Yes, yes, my lad; but there are other states you forgot to mention.”

“What are they?” replied the child, not the least disconcerted.

“Spain, Russia, Austria, Prussia, France,” answered Paganel.

“They are provinces, not states,” said Toline.

“Well, that beats all!” exclaimed Paganel, tearing off his spectacles.

“Yes,” continued the child. “Spain--capital, Gibraltar.”

“Admirable! perfect! sublime! And France, for I am French, and I should

like to know to whom I belong.”

“France,” said Toline, quietly, “is an English province; chief city,

Calais.”

“Calais!” cried Paganel. “So you think Calais still belongs to the

English?”

“Certainly.”

“And that it is the capital of France?”

“Yes, sir; and it is there that the Governor, Lord Napo-leon, lives.”

This was too much for Paganel’s risible faculties. He burst out

laughing. Toline did not know what to make of him. He had done his best

to answer every question put to him. But the singularity of the answers

were not his blame; indeed, he never imagined anything singular about

them. However, he took it all quietly, and waited for the professor to

recover himself. These peals of laughter were quite incomprehensible to

him.

“You see,” said Major McNabbs, laughing, “I was right. The pupil could

enlighten you after all.”

“Most assuredly, friend Major,” replied the geographer. “So that’s the

way they teach geography in Melbourne! They do it well, these professors

in the Normal School! Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Oceanica, the whole

world belongs to the English. My conscience! with such an ingenious

education it is no wonder the natives submit. Ah, well, Toline, my boy,

does the moon belong to England, too?”

“She will, some day,” replied the young savage, gravely.

This was the climax. Paganel could not stand any more. He was obliged

to go away and take his laugh out, for he was actually exploding with

mirth, and he went fully a quarter of a mile from the encampment before

his equilibrium was restored.

Meanwhile, Glenarvan looked up a geography they had brought among their

books. It was “Richardson’s Compendium,” a work in great repute in

England, and more in agreement with modern science than the manual in

use in the Normal School in Melbourne.

“Here, my child,” he said to Toline, “take this book and keep it. You

have a few wrong ideas about geography, which it would be well for you

to rectify. I will give you this as a keepsake from me.”

Toline took the book silently; but, after examining it attentively, he

shook his head with an air of incredulity, and could not even make up

his mind to put it in his pocket.

By this time night had closed in; it was 10 P. M. and time to think of

rest, if they were to start betimes next day. Robert offered his friend

Toline half his bed, and the little fellow accepted it. Lady Helena and

Mary Grant withdrew to the wagon, and the others lay down in the tent,

Paganel’s merry peals still mingling with the low, sweet song of the

wild magpie.

But in the morning at six o’clock, when the sunshine wakened the

sleepers, they looked in vain for the little Australian. Toline had

disappeared. Was he in haste to get to the Lachlan district? or was he

hurt by Paganel’s laughter? No one could say.

But when Lady Helena opened her eyes she discovered a fresh branch of

mimosa leaves lying across her, and Paganel found a book in his vest

pocket, which turned out to be “Richardson’s Geography.”

CHAPTER XIII A WARNING

ON the 2d of January, at sunrise, the travelers forded the Colban and

the Caupespe rivers. The half of their journey was now accomplished. In

fifteen days more, should their journey continue to be prosperous, the

little party would reach Twofold Bay.

They were all in good health. All that Paganel said of the hygienic

qualities of the climate was realized. There was little or no humidity,

and the heat was quite bearable. Neither horses nor bullocks could

complain of it any more than human beings. The order of the march had

been changed in one respect since the affair of Camden Bridge. That

criminal catastrophe on the railway made Ayrton take sundry precautions,

which had hitherto been unnecessary. The hunters never lost sight of the

wagon, and whenever they camped, one was always placed on watch. Morning

and evening the firearms were primed afresh. It was certain that a gang

of ruffians was prowling about the country, and though there was no

cause for actual fear, it was well to be ready for whatever might

happen.

It need hardly be said these precautions were adopted without the

knowledge of Lady Helena and Mary Grant, as Lord Glenarvan did not wish

to alarm them.

They were by no means unnecessary, however, for any imprudence or

carelessness might have cost the travelers dear. Others beside Glenarvan

were on their guard. In lonely settlements and on stations, the

inhabitants and the squatters prepared carefully against any attack or

surprise. Houses are closed at nightfall; the dogs let loose inside

the fences, barked at the slightest sound. Not a single shepherd on

horseback gathered his numerous flocks together at close of day, without

having a carbine slung from his saddle.

The outrage at Camden Bridge was the reason for all this, and many a

colonist fastened himself in with bolts and bars now at dusk, who used

to sleep with open doors and windows.

The Government itself displayed zeal and prudence, especially in the

Post-office department. On this very day, just as Glenarvan and his

party were on their way from Kilmore to Heathcote, the mail dashed by

at full speed; but though the horses were at a gallop, Glenarvan caught

sight of the glittering weapons of the mounted police that rode by its

side, as they swept past in a cloud of dust. The travelers might have

fancied themselves back in those lawless times when the discovery of

the first gold-fields deluged the Australian continent with the scum of

Europe.

A mile beyond the road to Kilmore, the wagon, for the first time since

leaving Cape Bernouilli, struck into one of those forests of gigantic

trees which extend over a super-fices of several degrees. A cry of

admiration escaped the travelers at the sight of the eucalyptus trees,

two hundred feet high, with tough bark five inches thick. The trunks,

measuring twenty feet round, and furrowed with foamy streaks of an

odorous resin, rose one hundred and fifty feet above the soil. Not

a branch, not a twig, not a stray shoot, not even a knot, spoilt the

regularity of their outline. They could not have come out smoother from

the hands of a turner. They stood like pillars all molded exactly alike,

and could be counted by hundreds. At an enormous height they spread out

in chaplets of branches, rounded and adorned at their extremity with

alternate leaves. At the axle of these leaves solitary flowers drooped

down, the calyx of which resembles an inverted urn.

Under this leafy dome, which never lost its greenness, the air

circulated freely, and dried up the dampness of the ground. Horses,

cattle, and wagon could easily pass between the trees, for they were

standing in wide rows, and parceled out like a wood that was being

felled. This was neither like the densely-packed woods choked up with

brambles, nor the virgin forest barricaded with the trunks of fallen

trees, and overgrown with inextricable tangles of creepers, where only

iron and fire could open up a track. A grassy carpet at the foot of the

trees, and a canopy of verdure above, long perspectives of bold colors,

little shade, little freshness at all, a peculiar light, as if the rays

came through a thin veil, dappled lights and shades sharply reflected on

the ground, made up a whole, and constituted a peculiar spectacle rich

in novel effects. The forests of the Oceanic continent do not in the

least resemble the forests of the New World; and the Eucalyptus, the

“Tara” of the aborigines, belonging to the family of MYRTACEA, the

different varieties of which can hardly be enumerated, is the tree _par

excellence_ of the Australian flora.

The reason of the shade not being deep, nor the darkness profound, under

these domes of verdure, was that these trees presented a curious anomaly

in the disposition of the leaves. Instead of presenting their broad

surface to the sunlight, only the side is turned. Only the profile of

the leaves is seen in this singular foliage. Consequently the sun’s

rays slant down them to the earth, as if through the open slants of a

Venetian blind.

Glenarvan expressed his surprise at this circumstance, and wondered

what could be the cause of it. Paganel, who was never at a loss for an

answer, immediately replied:

“What astonishes me is not the caprice of nature. She knows what she is

about, but botanists don’t always know what they are saying. Nature made

no mistake in giving this peculiar foliage to the tree, but men have

erred in calling them EUCALYPTUS.”

“What does the word mean?” asked Mary Grant.

“It comes from a Greek word, meaning I _cover well_. They took care to

commit the mistake in Greek, that it might not be so self-evident, for

anyone can see that the ecualyptus covers badly.”

“I agree with you there,” said Glenarvan; “but now tell us, Paganel, how

it is that the leaves grow in this fashion?”

“From a purely physical cause, friends,” said Paganel, “and one that you

will easily understand. In this country where the air is dry and rain

seldom falls, and the ground is parched, the trees have no need of

wind or sun. Moisture lacking, sap is lacking also. Hence these narrow

leaves, which seek to defend themselves against the light, and prevent

too great evaporation. This is why they present the profile and not the

face to the sun’s rays. There is nothing more intelligent than a leaf.”

“And nothing more selfish,” added the Major. “These only thought of

themselves, and not at all of travelers.”

Everyone inclined to the opinion of McNabbs except Paganel, who

congratulated himself on walking under shadeless trees, though all the

time he was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. However, this

disposition of foliage was certainly to be regretted, for the journey

through the forest was often long and painful, as the traveler had no

protection whatever against the sun’s fierce rays.

The whole of this day the wagon continued to roll along through

interminable rows of eucalyptus, without meeting either quadruped or

native. A few cockatoos lived in the tops of the trees, but at such a

height they could scarcely be distinguished, and their noisy chatter

was changed into an imperceptible murmur. Occasionally a swarm of

par-roquets flew along a distant path, and lighted it up for an instant

with gay colors; but otherwise, solemn silence reigned in this vast

green temple, and the tramp of the horses, a few words exchanged with

each other by the riders, the grinding noise of the wheels, and from

time to time a cry from Ayrton to stir up his lazy team, were the only

sounds which disturbed this immense solitude.

When night came they camped at the foot of some eucalyptus, which bore

marks of a comparatively recent fire. They looked like tall factory

chimneys, for the flame had completely hollowed them out their whole

length. With the thick bark still covering them, they looked none the

worse. However, this bad habit of squatters or natives will end in the

destruction of these magnificent trees, and they will disappear like the

cedars of Lebanon, those world monuments burnt by unlucky camp fires.

Olbinett, acting on Paganel’s advice, lighted his fire to prepare supper

in one of these tubular trunks. He found it drew capitally, and the

smoke was lost in the dark foliage above. The requisite precautions

were taken for the night, and Ayrton, Mulrady, Wilson and John Mangles

undertook in turn to keep watch until sunrise.

On the 3d of January, all day long, they came to nothing but the same

symmetrical avenues of trees; it seemed as if they never were going to

end. However, toward evening the ranks of trees began to thin, and on a

little plain a few miles off an assemblage of regular houses.

“Seymour!” cried Paganel; “that is the last town we come to in the

province of Victoria.”

“Is it an important one?” asked Lady Helena.

“It is a mere village, madam, but on the way to become a municipality.”

“Shall we find a respectable hotel there?” asked Glenarvan.

“I hope so,” replied Paganel.

“Very well; let us get on to the town, for our fair travelers, with all

their courage, will not be sorry, I fancy, to have a good night’s rest.”

“My dear Edward, Mary and I will accept it gladly, but only on the

condition that it will cause no delay, or take us the least out of the

road.”

“It will do neither,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “Besides, our bullocks are

fatigued, and we will start to-morrow at daybreak.”

It was now nine o’clock; the moon was just beginning to rise, but her

rays were only slanting yet, and lost in the mist. It was gradually

getting dark when the little party entered the wide streets of Seymour,

under Paganel’s guidance, who seemed always to know what he had

never seen; but his instinct led him right, and he walked straight to

Campbell’s North British Hotel.

The Major without even leaving the hotel, was soon aware that fear

absorbed the inhabitants of the little town. Ten minutes’ conversation

with Dickson, the loquacious landlord, made him completely acquainted

with the actual state of affairs; but he never breathed a word to any

one.

When supper was over, though, and Lady Glenarvan, and Mary, and Robert

had retired, the Major detained his companions a little, and said, “They

have found out the perpetrators of the crime on the Sandhurst railroad.”

“And are they arrested?” asked Ayrton, eagerly.

“No,” replied McNabbs, without apparently noticing the EMPRESSMENT of

the quartermaster--an EMPRESSMENT which, moreover, was reasonable enough

under the circumstances.

“So much the worse,” replied Ayrton.

“Well,” said Glenarvan, “who are the authors of the crime?”

“Read,” replied the Major, offering Glenarvan a copy of the _Australian

and New Zealand Gazette_, “and you will see that the inspector of the

police was not mistaken.”

Glenarvan read aloud the following message:

SYDNEY, Jan. 2, 1866.

It will be remembered that on the night of the 29th or 30th of last

December there was an accident at Camden Bridge, five miles beyond the

station at Castlemaine, on the railway from Melbourne to Sandhurst. The

night express, 11.45, dashing along at full speed, was precipitated into

the Loddon River.

Camden Bridge had been left open. The numerous robberies committed after

the accident, the body of the guard picked up about half a mile from

Camden Bridge, proved that this catastrophe was the result of a crime.

Indeed, the coroner’s inquest decided that the crime must be attributed

to the band of convicts which escaped six months ago from the

Penitentiary at Perth, Western Australia, just as they were about to be

transferred to Norfolk Island.

The gang numbers twenty-nine men; they are under the command of a

certain Ben Joyce, a criminal of the most dangerous class, who arrived

in Australia a few months ago, by what ship is not known, and who has

hitherto succeeded in evading the hands of justice.

The inhabitants of towns, colonists and squatters at stations, are

hereby cautioned to be on their guard, and to communicate to the

Surveyor-General any information that may aid his search. J. P.

MITCHELL, S. G.

When Glenarvan had finished reading this article, McNabbs turned to

the geographer and said, “You see, Paganel, there can be convicts in

Australia.”

“Escaped convicts, that is evident,” replied Paganel, “but not regularly

transported criminals. Those fellows have no business here.”

“Well, they are here, at any rate,” said Glenarvan; “but I don’t suppose

the fact need materially alter our arrangements. What do you think,

John?”

John Mangles did not reply immediately; he hesitated between the sorrow

it would cause the two children to give up the search, and the fear of

compromising the expedition.

“If Lady Glenarvan, and Miss Grant were not with us,” he said, “I should

not give myself much concern about these wretches.”

Glenarvan understood him and added, “Of course I need not say that it is

not a question of giving up our task; but would it perhaps be prudent,

for the sake of our companions, to rejoin the DUNCAN at Melbourne, and

proceed with our search for traces of Harry Grant on the eastern side.

What do you think of it, McNabbs?”

“Before I give my opinion,” replied the Major, “I should like to hear

Ayrton’s.”

At this direct appeal, the quartermaster looked at Glenarvan, and said,

“I think we are two hundred miles from Melbourne, and that the danger,

if it exists, is as great on the route to the south as on the route to

the east. Both are little frequented, and both will serve us. Besides,

I do not think that thirty scoundrels can frighten eight well-armed,

determined men. My advice, then, is to go forward.”

“And good advice too, Ayrton,” replied Paganel. “By going on we may come

across the traces of Captain Grant. In returning south, on the contrary,

we turn our backs to them. I think with you, then, and I don’t care

a snap for these escaped fellows. A brave man wouldn’t care a bit for

them!”

Upon this they agreed with the one voice to follow their original

programme.

“Just one thing, my Lord,” said Ayrton, when they were about to

separate.

“Say on, Ayrton.”

“Wouldn’t it be advisable to send orders to the DUNCAN to be at the

coast?”

“What good would that be,” replied John Mangles. “When we reach Twofold

Bay it will be time enough for that. If any unexpected event should

oblige us to go to Melbourne, we might be sorry not to find the DUNCAN

there. Besides, her injuries can not be repaired yet. For these reasons,

then, I think it would be better to wait.”

“All right,” said Ayrton, and forbore to press the matter further.

CHAPTER XIV WEALTH IN THE WILDERNESS

ON January 6, at 7 A. M., after a tranquil night passed in longitude

146 degrees 15”, the travelers continued their journey across the vast

district. They directed their course steadily toward the rising sun,

and made a straight line across the plain. Twice over they came upon

the traces of squatters going toward the north, and their different

footprints became confused, and Glenarvan’s horse no longer left on the

dust the Blackpoint mark, recognizable by its double shamrock.

The plain was furrowed in some places by fantastic winding creeks

surrounded by box, and whose waters were rather temporary than

permanent. They originated in the slopes of the Buffalo Ranges, a

chain of mountains of moderate height, the undulating line of which was

visible on the horizon. It was resolved to camp there the same night.

Ayrton goaded on his team, and after a journey of thirty-five miles, the

bullocks arrived, somewhat fatigued. The tent was pitched beneath the

great trees, and as night had drawn on supper was served as quickly as

possible, for all the party cared more for sleeping than eating, after

such a day’s march.

Paganel who had the first watch did not lie down, but shouldered his

rifle and walked up and down before the camp, to keep himself from going

to sleep. In spite of the absence of the moon, the night was almost

luminous with the light of the southern constellations. The SAVANT

amused himself with reading the great book of the firmament, a book

which is always open, and full of interest to those who can read it. The

profound silence of sleeping nature was only interrupted by the clanking

of the hobbles on the horses’ feet.

Paganel was engrossed in his astronomical meditations, and thinking more

about the celestial than the terrestrial world, when a distant sound

aroused him from his reverie. He listened attentively, and to his great

amaze, fancied he heard the sounds of a piano. He could not be mistaken,

for he distinctly heard chords struck.

“A piano in the wilds!” said Paganel to himself. “I can never believe it

is that.”

It certainly was very surprising, but Paganel found it easier to believe

it was some Australian bird imitating the sounds of a Pleyel or Erard,

as others do the sounds of a clock or mill. But at this very moment,

the notes of a clear ringing voice rose on the air. The PIANIST was

accompanied by singing. Still Paganel was unwilling to be convinced.

However, next minute he was forced to admit the fact, for there fell on

his ear the sublime strains of Mozart’s “Il mio tesoro tanto” from Don

Juan.

“Well, now,” said the geographer to himself, “let the Australian birds

be as queer as they may, and even granting the paroquets are the most

musical in the world, they can’t sing Mozart!”

He listened to the sublime inspiration of the great master to the

end. The effect of this soft melody on the still clear night was

indescribable. Paganel remained as if spellbound for a time; the voice

ceased and all was silence. When Wilson came to relieve the watch,

he found the geographer plunged into a deep reverie. Paganel made

no remark, however, to the sailor, but reserved his information for

Glenarvan in the morning, and went into the tent to bed.

Next day, they were all aroused from sleep by the sudden loud barking

of dogs, Glenarvan got up forthwith. Two magnificent pointers, admirable

specimens of English hunting dogs, were bounding in front of the little

wood, into which they had retreated at the approach of the travelers,

redoubling their clamor.

“There is some station in this desert, then,” said Glenarvan, “and

hunters too, for these are regular setters.”

Paganel was just about to recount his nocturnal experiences, when two

young men appeared, mounted on horses of the most perfect breed, true

“hunters.”

The two gentlemen dressed in elegant hunting costume, stopped at the

sight of the little group camping in gipsy fashion. They looked as if

they wondered what could bring an armed party there, but when they saw

the ladies get out of the wagon, they dismounted instantly, and went

toward them hat in hand. Lord Glenarvan came to meet them, and, as a

stranger, announced his name and rank.

The gentlemen bowed, and the elder of them said, “My Lord, will not

these ladies and yourself and friends honor us by resting a little

beneath our roof?”

“Mr.--,” began Glenarvan.

“Michael and Sandy Patterson are our names, proprietors of Hottam

Station. Our house is scarcely a quarter of a mile distant.”

“Gentlemen,” replied Glenarvan, “I should not like to abuse such

kindly-offered hospitality.”

“My Lord,” returned Michael Patterson, “by accepting it you will confer

a favor on poor exiles, who will be only too happy to do the honors of

the wilds.”

Glenarvan bowed in token of acquiescence.

“Sir,” said Paganel, addressing Michael Patterson, “if it is not an

impudent question, may I ask whether it was you that sung an air from

the divine Mozart last night?”

“It was, sir,” replied the stranger, “and my cousin Sandy accompanied

me.”

“Well, sir,” replied Paganel, holding out his hand to the young man,

“receive the sincere compliments of a Frenchman, who is a passionate

admirer of this music.”

Michael grasped his hand cordially, and then pointing out the road to

take, set off, accompanied by the ladies and Lord Glenarvan and his

friends, for the station. The horses and the camp were left to the care

of Ayrton and the sailors.

Hottam Station was truly a magnificent establishment, kept as

scrupulously in order as an English park. Immense meadows, enclosed

in gray fences, stretched away out of sight. In these, thousands

of bullocks and millions of sheep were grazing, tended by numerous

shepherds, and still more numerous dogs. The crack of the stock-whip

mingled continually with the barking of the “collies” and the bellowing

and bleating of the cattle and sheep.

Toward the east there was a boundary of myalls and gum-trees, beyond

which rose Mount Hottam, its imposing peak towering 7,500 feet high.

Long avenues of green trees were visible on all sides. Here and there

was a thick clump of “grass trees,” tall bushes ten feet high, like the

dwarf palm, quite lost in their crown of long narrow leaves. The air

was balmy and odorous with the perfume of scented laurels, whose white

blossoms, now in full bloom, distilled on the breeze the finest aromatic

perfume.

To these charming groups of native trees were added transplantations

from European climates. The peach, pear, and apple trees were there,

the fig, the orange, and even the oak, to the rapturous delight of the

travelers, who greeted them with loud hurrahs! But astonished as the

travelers were to find themselves walking beneath the shadow of the

trees of their own native land, they were still more so at the sight of

the birds that flew about in the branches--the “satin bird,” with its

silky plumage, and the “king-honeysuckers,” with their plumage of gold

and black velvet.

For the first time, too, they saw here the “Lyre” bird, the tail of

which resembles in form the graceful instrument of Orpheus. It flew

about among the tree ferns, and when its tail struck the branches, they

were almost surprised not to hear the harmonious strains that inspired

Amphion to rebuild the walls of Thebes. Paganel had a great desire to

play on it.

However, Lord Glenarvan was not satisfied with admiring the fairy-like

wonders of this oasis, improvised in the Australian desert. He was

listening to the history of the young gentlemen. In England, in the

midst of civilized countries, the new comer acquaints his host whence

he comes and whither he is going; but here, by a refinement of delicacy,

Michael and Sandy Patterson thought it a duty to make themselves known

to the strangers who were about to receive their hospitality.

Michael and Sandy Patterson were the sons of London bankers. When they

were twenty years of age, the head of their family said, “Here are some

thousands, young men. Go to a distant colony; and start some useful

settlement there. Learn to know life by labor. If you succeed, so much

the better. If you fail, it won’t matter much. We shall not regret the

money which makes you men.”

The two young men obeyed. They chose the colony of Victoria in

Australia, as the field for sowing the paternal bank-notes, and had

no reason to repent the selection. At the end of three years the

establishment was flourishing. In Victoria, New South Wales, and

Southern Australia, there are more than three thousand stations, some

belonging to squatters who rear cattle, and others to settlers who

farm the ground. Till the arrival of the two Pattersons, the largest

establishment of this sort was that of Mr. Jamieson, which covered an

area of seventy-five miles, with a frontage of about eight miles along

the Peron, one of the affluents of the Darling.

Now Hottam Station bore the palm for business and extent. The young men

were both squatters and settlers. They managed their immense property

with rare ability and uncommon energy.

The station was far removed from the chief towns in the midst of the

unfrequented districts of the Murray. It occupied a long wide space

of five leagues in extent, lying between the Buffalo Ranges and Mount

Hottam. At the two angles north of this vast quadrilateral, Mount

Aberdeen rose on the left, and the peaks of High Barven on the right.

Winding, beautiful streams were not wanting, thanks to the creeks and

affluents of the Oven’s River, which throws itself at the north into the

bed of the Murray. Consequently they were equally successful in

cattle breeding and farming. Ten thousand acres of ground, admirably

cultivated, produced harvests of native productions and exotics, and

several millions of animals fattened in the fertile pastures. The

products of Hottam Station fetched the very highest price in the markets

of Castlemaine and Melbourne.

Michael and Sandy Patterson had just concluded these details of their

busy life, when their dwelling came in sight, at the extremity of the

avenue of the oaks.

It was a charming house, built of wood and brick, hidden in groves

of emerophilis. Nothing at all, however, belonging to a station

was visible--neither sheds, nor stables, nor cart-houses. All these

out-buildings, a perfect village, comprising more than twenty huts and

houses, were about a quarter of a mile off in the heart of a little

valley. Electric communication was established between this village and

the master’s house, which, far removed from all noise, seemed buried in

a forest of exotic trees.

At Sandy Patterson’s bidding, a sumptuous breakfast was served in less

than a quarter of an hour. The wines and viands were of the finest

quality; but what pleased the guests most of all in the midst of these

refinements of opulence, was the joy of the young squatters in offering

them this splendid hospitality.

It was not long before they were told the history of the expedition,

and had their liveliest interest awakened for its success. They spoke

hopefully to the young Grants, and Michael said: “Harry Grant has

evidently fallen into the hands of natives, since he has not turned up

at any of the settlements on the coast. He knows his position exactly,

as the document proves, and the reason he did not reach some English

colony is that he must have been taken prisoner by the savages the

moment he landed!”

“That is precisely what befell his quartermaster, Ayrton,” said John

Mangles.

“But you, gentlemen, then, have never heard the catastrophe of the

BRITANNIA, mentioned?” inquired Lady Helena.

“Never, Madam,” replied Michael.

“And what treatment, in your opinion, has Captain Grant met with among

the natives?”

“The Australians are not cruel, Madam,” replied the young squatter, “and

Miss Grant may be easy on that score. There have been many instances

of the gentleness of their nature, and some Europeans have lived a long

time among them without having the least cause to complain of their

brutality.”

“King, among others, the sole survivor of the Burke expedition,” put in

Paganel.

“And not only that bold explorer,” returned Sandy, “but also an English

soldier named Buckley, who deserted at Port Philip in 1803, and who was

welcomed by the natives, and lived thirty-three years among them.”

“And more recently,” added Michael, “one of the last numbers of the

AUSTRALASIA informs us that a certain Morrilli has just been restored

to his countrymen after sixteen years of slavery. His story is exactly

similar to the captain’s, for it was at the very time of his shipwreck

in the PRUVIENNE, in 1846, that he was made prisoner by the natives, and

dragged away into the interior of the continent. I therefore think you

have reason to hope still.”

The young squatter’s words caused great joy to his auditors. They

completely corroborated the opinions of Paganel and Ayrton.

The conversation turned on the convicts after the ladies had left the

table. The squatters had heard of the catastrophe at Camden Bridge, but

felt no uneasiness about the escaped gang. It was not a station, with

more than a hundred men on it, that they would dare to attack. Besides,

they would never go into the deserts of the Murray, where they could

find no booty, nor near the colonies of New South Wales, where the roads

were too well watched. Ayrton had said this too.

Glenarvan could not refuse the request of his amiable hosts, to spend

the whole day at the station. It was twelve hours’ delay, but also

twelve hours’ rest, and both horses and bullocks would be the better

for the comfortable quarters they would find there. This was accordingly

agreed upon, and the young squatters sketched out a programme of the

day’s amusements, which was adopted eagerly.

At noon, seven vigorous hunters were before the door. An elegant brake

was intended for the ladies, in which the coachman could exhibit

his skill in driving four-in-hand. The cavalcade set off preceded

by huntsmen, and armed with first-rate rifles, followed by a pack of

pointers barking joyously as they bounded through the bushes. For four

hours the hunting party wandered through the paths and avenues of the

park, which was as large as a small German state. The Reuiss-Schleitz,

or Saxe-Coburg Gotha, would have gone inside it comfortably. Few people

were to be met in it certainly, but sheep in abundance. As for game,

there was a complete preserve awaiting the hunters. The noisy reports of

guns were soon heard on all sides. Little Robert did wonders in

company with Major McNabbs. The daring boy, in spite of his sister’s

injunctions, was always in front, and the first to fire. But John

Mangles promised to watch over him, and Mary felt less uneasy.

During this BATTUE they killed certain animals peculiar to the country,

the very names of which were unknown to Paganel; among others the

“wombat” and the “bandicoot.” The wombat is an herbivorous animal, which

burrows in the ground like a badger. It is as large as a sheep, and the

flesh is excellent.

The bandicoot is a species of marsupial animal which could outwit the

European fox, and give him lessons in pillaging poultry yards. It was

a repulsive-looking animal, a foot and a half long, but, as Paganel

chanced to kill it, of course he thought it charming.

“An adorable creature,” he called it.

But the most interesting event of the day, by far, was the kangaroo

hunt. About four o’clock, the dogs roused a troop of these curious

marsupials. The little ones retreated precipitately into the maternal

pouch, and all the troop decamped in file. Nothing could be more

astonishing than the enormous bounds of the kangaroo. The hind legs

of the animal are twice as long as the front ones, and unbend like a

spring. At the head of the flying troop was a male five feet high, a

magnificent specimen of the _macropus giganteus_, an “old man,” as the

bushmen say.

For four or five miles the chase was vigorously pursued. The kangaroos

showed no signs of weariness, and the dogs, who had reason enough to

fear their strong paws and sharp nails, did not care to approach them.

But at last, worn out with the race, the troop stopped, and the “old

man” leaned against the trunk of a tree, ready to defend himself. One

of the pointers, carried away by excitement, went up to him. Next

minute the unfortunate beast leaped into the air, and fell down again

completely ripped up.

The whole pack, indeed, would have had little chance with these powerful

marsupia. They had to dispatch the fellow with rifles. Nothing but balls

could bring down the gigantic animal.

Just at this moment, Robert was well nigh the victim of his own

imprudence. To make sure of his aim, he had approached too near the

kangaroo, and the animal leaped upon him immediately. Robert gave a loud

cry and fell. Mary Grant saw it all from the brake, and in an agony of

terror, speechless and almost unable even to see, stretched out her arms

toward her little brother. No one dared to fire, for fear of wounding

the child.

But John Mangles opened his hunting knife, and at the risk of being

ripped up himself, sprang at the animal, and plunged it into his heart.

The beast dropped forward, and Robert rose unhurt. Next minute he was in

his sister’s arms.

“Thank you, Mr. John, thank you!” she said, holding out her hand to the

young captain.

“I had pledged myself for his safety,” was all John said, taking her

trembling fingers into his own.

This occurrence ended the sport. The band of marsupia had disappeared

after the death of their leader. The hunting party returned home,

bringing their game with them. It was then six o’clock. A magnificent

dinner was ready. Among other things, there was one dish that was a

great success. It was kangaroo-tail soup, prepared in the native manner.

Next morning very early, they took leave of the young squatters, with

hearty thanks and a positive promise from them of a visit to Malcolm

Castle when they should return to Europe.

Then the wagon began to move away, round the foot of Mount Hottam, and

soon the hospitable dwelling disappeared from the sight of the travelers

like some brief vision which had come and gone.

For five miles further, the horses were still treading the station

lands. It was not till nine o’clock that they had passed the last fence,

and entered the almost unknown districts of the province of Victoria.

CHAPTER XV SUSPICIOUS OCCURRENCES

AN immense barrier lay across the route to the southeast. It was the

Australian Alps, a vast fortification, the fantastic curtain of which

extended 1,500 miles, and pierced the clouds at the height of 4,000

feet.

The cloudy sky only allowed the heat to reach the ground through a

close veil of mist. The temperature was just bearable, but the road

was toilsome from its uneven character. The extumescences on the plain

became more and more marked. Several mounds planted with green young

gum trees appeared here and there. Further on these protuberances rising

sharply, formed the first steps of the great Alps. From this time their

course was a continual ascent, as was soon evident in the strain it made

on the bullocks to drag along the cumbrous wagon. Their yoke creaked,

they breathed heavily, and the muscles of their houghs were stretched as

if they would burst. The planks of the vehicle groaned at the unexpected

jolts, which Ayrton with all his skill could not prevent. The ladies

bore their share of discomfort bravely.

John Mangles and his two sailors acted as scouts, and went about a

hundred steps in advance. They found out practical paths, or passes,

indeed they might be called, for these projections of the ground were

like so many rocks, between which the wagon had to steer carefully. It

required absolute navigation to find a safe way over the billowy region.

It was a difficult and often perilous task. Many a time Wilson’s hatchet

was obliged to open a passage through thick tangles of shrubs. The damp

argillaceous soil gave way under their feet. The route was indefinitely

prolonged owing to the insurmountable obstacles, huge blocks of granite,

deep ravines, suspected lagoons, which obliged them to make a thousand

detours. When night came they found they had only gone over half a

degree. They camped at the foot of the Alps, on the banks of the creek

of Cobongra, on the edge of a little plain, covered with little shrubs

four feet high, with bright red leaves which gladdened the eye.

“We shall have hard work to get over,” said Glenarvan, looking at the

chain of mountains, the outlines of which were fast fading away in

the deepening darkness. “The very name Alps gives plenty of room for

reflection.”

“It is not quite so big as it sounds, my dear Glenarvan. Don’t suppose

you have a whole Switzerland to traverse. In Australia there are the

Grampians, the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Blue Mountains, as in Europe

and America, but in miniature. This simply implies either that the

imagination of geographers is not infinite, or that their vocabulary of

proper names is very poor.”

“Then these Australian Alps,” said Lord Glenarvan, “are--”

“Mere pocket mountains,” put in Paganel; “we shall get over them without

knowing it.”

“Speak for yourself,” said the Major. “It would certainly take a very

absent man who could cross over a chain of mountains and not know it.”

“Absent! But I am not an absent man now. I appeal to the ladies. Since

ever I set foot on the Australian continent, have I been once at fault?

Can you reproach me with a single blunder?”

“Not one. Monsieur Paganel,” said Mary Grant. “You are now the most

perfect of men.”

“Too perfect,” added Lady Helena, laughing; “your blunders suited you

admirably.”

“Didn’t they, Madam? If I have no faults now, I shall soon get like

everybody else. I hope then I shall make some outrageous mistake before

long, which will give you a good laugh. You see, unless I make mistakes,

it seems to me I fail in my vocation.”

Next day, the 9th of January, notwithstanding the assurances of the

confident geographer, it was not without great difficulty that the

little troop made its way through the Alpine pass. They were obliged

to go at a venture, and enter the depths of narrow gorges without any

certainty of an outlet. Ayrton would doubtless have found himself very

much embarrassed if a little inn, a miserable public house, had not

suddenly presented itself.

“My goodness!” cried Paganel, “the landlord of this inn won’t make his

fortune in a place like this. What is the use of it here?”

“To give us the information we want about the route,” replied Glenarvan.

“Let us go in.”

Glenarvan, followed by Ayrton, entered the inn forthwith. The

landlord of the “Bush Inn,” as it was called, was a coarse man with

an ill-tempered face, who must have considered himself his principal

customer for the gin, brandy and whisky he had to sell. He seldom saw

any one but the squatters and rovers. He answered all the questions put

to him in a surly tone. But his replies sufficed to make the route clear

to Ayrton, and that was all that was wanted. Glenarvan rewarded him with

a handful of silver for his trouble, and was about to leave the tavern,

when a placard against the wall arrested his attention.

It was a police notice, and announcing the escape of the convicts from

Perth, and offering a reward for the capture of Ben Joyce of pounds 100

sterling.

“He’s a fellow that’s worth hanging, and no mistake,” said Glenarvan to

the quartermaster.

“And worth capturing still more. But what a sum to offer! He is not

worth it!”

“I don’t feel very sure of the innkeeper though, in spite of the

notice,” said Glenarvan.

“No more do I,” replied Ayrton.

They went back to the wagon, toward the point where the route to Lucknow

stopped. A narrow path wound away from this which led across the chain

in a slanting direction. They had commenced the ascent.

It was hard work. More than once both the ladies and gentlemen had to

get down and walk. They were obliged to help to push round the wheels

of the heavy vehicle, and to support it frequently in dangerous

declivities, to unharness the bullocks when the team could not go well

round sharp turnings, prop up the wagon when it threatened to roll back,

and more than once Ayrton had to reinforce his bullocks by harnessing

the horses, although they were tired out already with dragging

themselves along.

Whether it was this prolonged fatigue, or from some other cause

altogether, was not known, but one of the horses sank suddenly, without

the slightest symptom of illness. It was Mulrady’s horse that fell, and

on attempting to pull it up, the animal was found to be dead. Ayrton

examined it immediately, but was quite at a loss to account for the

disaster.

“The beast must have broken some blood vessels,” said Glenarvan.

“Evidently,” replied Ayrton.

“Take my horse, Mulrady,” added Glenarvan. “I will join Lady Helena in

the wagon.”

Mulrady obeyed, and the little party continued their fatiguing ascent,

leaving the carcass of the dead animal to the ravens.

The Australian Alps are of no great thickness, and the base is not more

than eight miles wide. Consequently if the pass chosen by Ayrton came

out on the eastern side, they might hope to get over the high barrier

within forty-eight hours more. The difficulty of the route would then be

surmounted, and they would only have to get to the sea.

During the 18th the travelers reached the top-most point of the pass,

about 2,000 feet high. They found themselves on an open plateau, with

nothing to intercept the view. Toward the north the quiet waters of Lake

Omco, all alive with aquatic birds, and beyond this lay the vast plains

of the Murray. To the south were the wide spreading plains of Gippsland,

with its abundant gold-fields and tall forests. There nature was still

mistress of the products and water, and great trees where the woodman’s

ax was as yet unknown, and the squatters, then five in number, could not

struggle against her. It seemed as if this chain of the Alps separated

two different countries, one of which had retained its primitive

wildness. The sun went down, and a few solitary rays piercing the

rosy clouds, lighted up the Murray district, leaving Gippsland in

deep shadow, as if night had suddenly fallen on the whole region. The

contrast was presented very vividly to the spectators placed between

these two countries so divided, and some emotion filled the minds of the

travelers, as they contemplated the almost unknown district they were

about to traverse right to the frontiers of Victoria.

They camped on the plateau that night, and next day the descent

commenced. It was tolerably rapid. A hailstorm of extreme violence

assailed the travelers, and obliged them to seek a shelter among the

rocks. It was not hail-stones, but regular lumps of ice, as large as

one’s hand, which fell from the stormy clouds. A waterspout could not

have come down with more violence, and sundry big bruises warned Paganel

and Robert to retreat. The wagon was riddled in several places, and few

coverings would have held out against those sharp icicles, some of which

had fastened themselves into the trunks of the trees. It was impossible

to go on till this tremendous shower was over, unless the travelers

wished to be stoned. It lasted about an hour, and then the march

commenced anew over slanting rocks still slippery after the hail.

Toward evening the wagon, very much shaken and disjointed in several

parts, but still standing firm on its wooden disks, came down the last

slopes of the Alps, among great isolated pines. The passage ended in the

plains of Gippsland. The chain of the Alps was safely passed, and the

usual arrangements were made for the nightly encampment.

On the 21st, at daybreak, the journey was resumed with an ardor which

never relaxed. Everyone was eager to reach the goal--that is to say

the Pacific Ocean--at that part where the wreck of the BRITANNIA had

occurred. Nothing could be done in the lonely wilds of Gippsland, and

Ayrton urged Lord Glenarvan to send orders at once for the DUNCAN to

repair to the coast, in order to have at hand all means of research. He

thought it would certainly be advisable to take advantage of the Lucknow

route to Melbourne. If they waited it would be difficult to find any way

of direct communication with the capital.

This advice seemed good, and Paganel recommended that they should act

upon it. He also thought that the presence of the yacht would be very

useful, and he added, that if the Lucknow road was once passed, it would

be impossible to communicate with Melbourne.

Glenarvan was undecided what to do, and perhaps he would have yielded

to Ayrton’s arguments, if the Major had not combated this decision

vigorously. He maintained that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to

the expedition, that he would know the country about the coast, and

that if any chance should put them on the track of Harry Grant, the

quartermaster would be better able to follow it up than any one else,

and, finally, that he alone could point out the exact spot where the

shipwreck occurred.

McNabbs voted therefore for the continuation of the voyage, without

making the least change in their programme. John Mangles was of the same

opinion. The young captain said even that orders would reach the DUNCAN

more easily from Twofold Bay, than if a message was sent two hundred

miles over a wild country.

His counsel prevailed. It was decided that they should wait till they

came to Twofold Bay. The Major watched Ayrton narrowly, and noticed his

disappointed look. But he said nothing, keeping his observations, as

usual, to himself.

The plains which lay at the foot of the Australian Alps were level,

but slightly inclined toward the east. Great clumps of mimosas and

eucalyptus, and various odorous gum-trees, broke the uniform monotony

here and there. The _gastrolobium grandiflorum_ covered the ground, with

its bushes covered with gay flowers. Several unimportant creeks, mere

streams full of little rushes, and half covered up with orchids, often

interrupted the route. They had to ford these. Flocks of bustards and

emus fled at the approach of the travelers. Below the shrubs, kangaroos

were leaping and springing like dancing jacks. But the hunters of the

party were not thinking much of the sport, and the horses little needed

any additional fatigue.

Moreover, a sultry heat oppressed the plain. The atmosphere was

completely saturated with electricity, and its influence was felt by men

and beasts. They just dragged themselves along, and cared for nothing

else. The silence was only interrupted by the cries of Ayrton urging on

his burdened team.

From noon to two o’clock they went through a curious forest of ferns,

which would have excited the admiration of less weary travelers. These

plants in full flower measured thirty feet in height. Horses and riders

passed easily beneath their drooping leaves, and sometimes the spurs

would clash against the woody stems. Beneath these immovable parasols

there was a refreshing coolness which every one appreciated. Jacques

Paganel, always demonstrative, gave such deep sighs of satisfaction that

the paroquets and cockatoos flew out in alarm, making a deafening chorus

of noisy chatter.

The geographer was going on with his sighs and jubilations with the

utmost coolness, when his companions suddenly saw him reel forward, and

he and his horse fell down in a lump. Was it giddiness, or worse

still, suffocation, caused by the high temperature? They ran to him,

exclaiming: “Paganel! Paganel! what is the matter?”

“Just this. I have no horse, now!” he replied, disengaging his feet from

the stirrups.

“What! your horse?”

“Dead like Mulrady’s, as if a thunderbolt had struck him.”

Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Wilson examined the animal; and found

Paganel was right. His horse had been suddenly struck dead.

“That is strange,” said John.

“Very strange, truly,” muttered the Major.

Glenarvan was greatly disturbed by this fresh accident. He could not get

a fresh horse in the desert, and if an epidemic was going to seize their

steeds, they would be seriously embarrassed how to proceed.

Before the close of the day, it seemed as if the word epidemic was

really going to be justified. A third horse, Wilson’s, fell dead, and

what was, perhaps equally disastrous, one of the bullocks also. The

means of traction and transport were now reduced to three bullocks and

four horses.

The situation became grave. The unmounted horsemen might walk, of

course, as many squatters had done already; but if they abandoned the

wagon, what would the ladies do? Could they go over the one hundred and

twenty miles which lay between them and Twofold Bay? John Mangles and

Lord Glenarvan examined the surviving horses with great uneasiness, but

there was not the slightest symptom of illness or feebleness in them.

The animals were in perfect health, and bravely bearing the fatigues

of the voyage. This somewhat reassured Glenarvan, and made him hope the

malady would strike no more victims. Ayrton agreed with him, but was

unable to find the least solution of the mystery.

They went on again, the wagon serving, from time to time, as a house

of rest for the pedestrians. In the evening, after a march of only ten

miles, the signal to halt was given, and the tent pitched. The night

passed without inconvenience beneath a vast mass of bushy ferns, under

which enormous bats, properly called flying foxes, were flapping about.

The next day’s journey was good; there were no new calamities. The

health of the expedition remained satisfactory; horses and cattle did

their task cheerily. Lady Helena’s drawing-room was very lively, thanks

to the number of visitors. M. Olbinett busied himself in passing round

refreshments which were very acceptable in such hot weather. Half a

barrel of Scotch ale was sent in bodily. Barclay and Co. was declared to

be the greatest man in Great Britain, even above Wellington, who could

never have manufactured such good beer. This was a Scotch estimate.

Jacques Paganel drank largely, and discoursed still more _de omni re

scibili_.

A day so well commenced seemed as if it could not but end well; they had

gone fifteen good miles, and managed to get over a pretty hilly district

where the soil was reddish. There was every reason to hope they might

camp that same night on the banks of the Snowy River, an important river

which throws itself into the Pacific, south of Victoria.

Already the wheels of the wagon were making deep ruts on the wide

plains, covered with blackish alluvium, as it passed on between tufts of

luxuriant grass and fresh fields of gastrolobium. As evening came on, a

white mist on the horizon marked the course of the Snowy River. Several

additional miles were got over, and a forest of tall trees came in sight

at a bend of the road, behind a gentle eminence. Ayrton turned his team

a little toward the great trunks, lost in shadow, and he had got to the

skirts of the wood, about half-a-mile from the river, when the wagon

suddenly sank up to the middle of the wheels.

“Stop!” he called out to the horsemen following him.

“What is wrong?” inquired Glenarvan.

“We have stuck in the mud,” replied Ayrton.

He tried to stimulate the bullocks to a fresh effort by voice and goad,

but the animals were buried half-way up their legs, and could not stir.

“Let us camp here,” suggested John Mangles.

“It would certainly be the best place,” said Ayrton. “We shall see by

daylight to-morrow how to get ourselves out.”

Glenarvan acted on their advice, and came to a halt. Night came on

rapidly after a brief twilight, but the heat did not withdraw with the

light. Stifling vapors filled the air, and occasionally bright flashes

of lightning, the reflections of a distant storm, lighted up the sky

with a fiery glare. Arrangements were made for the night immediately.

They did the best they could with the sunk wagon, and the tent was

pitched beneath the shelter of the great trees; and if the rain did not

come, they had not much to complain about.

Ayrton succeeded, though with some difficulty, in extricating the three

bullocks. These courageous beasts were engulfed up to their flanks. The

quartermaster turned them out with the four horses, and allowed no one

but himself to see after their pasturage. He always executed his task

wisely, and this evening Glenarvan noticed he redoubled his care, for

which he took occasion to thank him, the preservation of the team being

of supreme importance.

Meantime, the travelers were dispatching a hasty supper. Fatigue and

heat destroy appetite, and sleep was needed more than food. Lady Helena

and Miss Grant speedily bade the company good-night, and retired. Their

companions soon stretched themselves under the tent or outside under the

trees, which is no great hardship in this salubrious climate.

Gradually they all fell into a heavy sleep. The darkness deepened owing

to a thick current of clouds which overspread the sky. There was not a

breath of wind. The silence of night was only interrupted by the cries

of the “morepork” in the minor key, like the mournful cuckoos of Europe.

Towards eleven o’clock, after a wretched, heavy, unrefreshing sleep, the

Major woke. His half-closed eyes were struck with a faint light running

among the great trees. It looked like a white sheet, and glittered like

a lake, and McNabbs thought at first it was the commencement of a fire.

He started up, and went toward the wood; but what was his surprise to

perceive a purely natural phenomenon! Before him lay an immense bed of

mushrooms, which emitted a phosphorescent light. The luminous spores of

the cryptograms shone in the darkness with intensity.

The Major, who had no selfishness about him, was going to waken Paganel,

that he might see this phenomenon with his own eyes, when something

occurred which arrested him. This phosphorescent light illumined the

distance half a mile, and McNabbs fancied he saw a shadow pass across

the edge of it. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it some hallucination?

McNabbs lay down on the ground, and, after a close scrutiny, he could

distinctly see several men stooping down and lifting themselves up

alternately, as if they were looking on the ground for recent marks.

The Major resolved to find out what these fellows were about, and

without the least hesitation or so much as arousing his companions,

crept along, lying flat on the ground, like a savage on the prairies,

completely hidden among the long grass.

CHAPTER XVI A STARTLING DISCOVERY

IT was a frightful night. At two A. M. the rain began to fall in

torrents from the stormy clouds, and continued till daybreak. The tent

became an insufficient shelter. Glenarvan and his companions took refuge

in the wagon; they did not sleep, but talked of one thing and another.

The Major alone, whose brief absence had not been noticed, contented

himself with being a silent listener. There was reason to fear that if

the storm lasted longer the Snowy River would overflow its banks,

which would be a very unlucky thing for the wagon, stuck fast as it was

already in the soft ground. Mulrady, Ayrton and Mangles went several

times to ascertain the height of the water, and came back dripping from

head to foot.

At last day appeared; the rain ceased, but sunlight could not break

through the thick clouds. Large patches of yellowish water--muddy,

dirty ponds indeed they were--covered the ground. A hot steam rose from

the soaking earth, and saturated the atmosphere with unhealthy humidity.

Glenarvan’s first concern was the wagon; this was the main thing in his

eyes. They examined the ponderous vehicle, and found it sunk in the

mud in a deep hollow in the stiff clay. The forepart had disappeared

completely, and the hind part up to the axle. It would be a hard job to

get the heavy conveyance out, and would need the united strength of men,

bullocks, and horses.

“At any rate, we must make haste,” said John Mangles. “If the clay

dries, it will make our task still more difficult.”

“Let us be quick, then,” replied Ayrton.

Glenarvan, his two sailors, John Mangles, and Ayrton went off at

once into the wood, where the animals had passed the night. It was a

gloomy-looking forest of tall gum-trees; nothing but dead trees, with

wide spaces between, which had been barked for ages, or rather skinned

like the cork-oak at harvest time. A miserable network of bare branches

was seen above two hundred feet high in the air. Not a bird built its

nest in these aerial skeletons; not a leaf trembled on the dry branches,

which rattled together like bones. To what cataclysm is this phenomenon

to be attributed, so frequent in Australia, entire forests struck dead

by some epidemic; no one knows; neither the oldest natives, nor their

ancestors who have lain long buried in the groves of the dead, have ever

seen them green.

Glenarvan as he went along kept his eye fixed on the gray sky, on which

the smallest branch of the gum-trees was sharply defined. Ayrton was

astonished not to discover the horses and bullocks where he had left

them the preceding night. They could not have wandered far with the

hobbles on their legs.

They looked over the wood, but saw no signs of them, and Ayrton returned

to the banks of the river, where magnificent mimosas were growing.

He gave a cry well known to his team, but there was no reply. The

quartermaster seemed uneasy, and his companions looked at him with

disappointed faces. An hour had passed in vain endeavors, and Glenarvan

was about to go back to the wagon, when a neigh struck on his ear, and

immediately after a bellow.

“They are there!” cried John Mangles, slipping between the tall

branches of gastrolobium, which grew high enough to hide a whole flock.

Glenarvan, Mulrady, and Ayrton darted after him, and speedily shared his

stupefaction at the spectacle which met their gaze.

Two bullocks and three horses lay stretched on the ground, struck

down like the rest. Their bodies were already cold, and a flock of

half-starved looking ravens croaking among the mimosas were watching the

unexpected prey. Glenarvan and his party gazed at each other and Wilson

could not keep back the oath that rose to his lips.

“What do you mean, Wilson?” said Glenarvan, with difficulty controlling

himself. “Ayrton, bring away the bullock and the horse we have left;

they will have to serve us now.”

“If the wagon were not sunk in the mud,” said John Mangles, “these

two animals, by making short journeys, would be able to take us to the

coast; so we must get the vehicle out, cost what it may.”

“We will try, John,” replied Glenarvan. “Let us go back now, or they

will be uneasy at our long absence.”

Ayrton removed the hobbles from the bullock and Mulrady from the horse,

and they began to return to the encampment, following the winding margin

of the river. In half an hour they rejoined Paganel, and McNabbs, and

the ladies, and told them of this fresh disaster.

“Upon my honor, Ayrton,” the Major could not help saying, “it is a pity

that you hadn’t had the shoeing of all our beasts when we forded the

Wimerra.”

“Why, sir?” asked Ayrton.

“Because out of all our horses only the one your blacksmith had in his

hands has escaped the common fate.”

“That’s true,” said John Mangles. “It’s strange it happens so.”

“A mere chance, and nothing more,” replied the quartermaster, looking

firmly at the Major.

Major McNabbs bit his lips as if to keep back something he was about to

say. Glenarvan and the rest waited for him to speak out his thoughts,

but the Major was silent, and went up to the wagon, which Ayrton was

examining.

“What was he going to say. Mangles?” asked Glenarvan.

“I don’t know,” replied the young captain; “but the Major is not at all

a man to speak without reason.”

“No, John,” said Lady Helena. “McNabbs must have suspicions about

Ayrton.”

“Suspicions!” exclaimed Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.

“And what can they be?” asked Glenarvan. “Does he suppose him capable

of having killed our horses and bullocks? And for what purpose? Is not

Ayrton’s interest identical with our own?”

“You are right, dear Edward,” said Lady Helena! “and what is more, the

quartermaster has given us incontestable proofs of his devotion ever

since the commencement of the journey.”

“Certainly he has,” replied Mangles; “but still, what could the Major

mean? I wish he would speak his mind plainly out.”