was broken in a most tragic manner on the night of the 28th of June, 1845.  It was a calm, quiet evening, and the party were peacefully encamped beside a chain of shallow lagoons.  The doctor was thinking out his plans for the next few days, Gilbert was planting a few lilies he had gathered, as was his nightly habit when any flowers were available.  Roper and the others were grouped around the fire warding off the attacks of the mosquitoes.  Suddenly about seven o’clock a shower of spears was thrown among the unarmed men, and Gilbert was almost instantly killed, Roper and Calvert being seriously wounded.  The whites rushed for their guns, but unfortunately not one weapon was ready capped, and it was some time before any of them could be discharged, when a volley caused the blacks to scamper off.  It is most astonishing that the whole of the members of the party were not cut down in one dreadful massacre.

The body of the murdered naturalist was buried at the fatal camp, but the grave was left unmarked, and a large fire built and consumed above it to hide all traces of it from the natives.  The river where this sad mishap occurred now bears the name of Gilbert.

From the scene of this tragedy, which ordinary precautions would have avoided, the party proceeded around the southern shore of the Gulf, keeping a short distance above tidal waters; but their progress was slow and painful on account of the two wounded men.  Most of Leichhardt’s names are still retained for the rivers of the Gulf which he crossed, the Leichhardt itself being an exception.  This river he mistook for the Albert, so named by Captain Stokes during his marine survey of the north coast.  A.C.  Gregory rectified the error in after years, and gave the river the name of the lost explorer for whom he was then searching.  With fast-dwindling supplies, lagging footsteps, and depressed spirits, the expedition travelled slowly on to the south-west corner of the Gulf where, in crossing a large river, the Roper, four of the horses were drowned in consequence of the boggy banks.  This misfortune so limited their means of carriage that Leichhardt had to sacrifice the whole of his botanical collection.  On the 17th of December, 1845, the worn-out travellers, nearly destitute of everything, reached the settlement of Victoria, at Port Essington, and the long journey of fourteen months was over.

This expedition, successful as it was in opening up such a large area of well-watered country, attracted universal attention both to the gratifying economic results and to the hitherto untried leader.  He was enthusiastically welcomed back to Sydney, and dubbed by journalists the prince of explorers.  But what captivated public fancy was a certain halo of romance that clung to the journey on account of the reported death of Leichhardt, a report that gained general credence.  His unexpected return invested him with a romance which —­ fortunately for his reputation —­ the total and absolute disappearance of himself and company in 1848 has but the more richly coloured.  Enthusiastic poets gush forth in song, and a more substantial reward was raised by public and private subscriptions and shared among the expedition in due proportions.