The fire was being rapidly extinguished by the torrents of water which were falling, and so eager did our party feel to gain the open air once more, that they preferred to brave the rain and smoke to remaining in a place that liked to have been their grave.

It was rare to have rain at that time of year in Australia, and a number of the men construed it into an omen of the good will of Providence; but I reflected, and came to the conclusion that the cause was natural, and could be produced at any time if there were forests enough to burn so as to obtain the requisite amount of heat.

The danger, however, was not all passed.  The ravages of the flames were stayed, but the ground which the fire had burned over was covered with smoking brands and livid coals, which, unless speedily extinguished by the rain, would keep us prisoners for a number of days—­and with nothing to eat, the prospect was any thing but cheering.  It is no wonder, then, we all mentally prayed that the rain would continue, and that our eyes were cast towards the heavens often to see if there was a prospect of the clouds breaking away.

Still the rain poured down in torrents, and huge clouds of mist and vapor filled the air and walled us in until we seemed as though confined in a steam box.  We cared not for that, however; rain, rain in torrents was all that we prayed for; and so engrossed were we, that even the dead bodies of the bushrangers, lying almost at our feet, were neglected.

At length, however, our reason returned, and we found time to pay some respect to the dead.  We resolved to bury them in a grave near the excavation in which we had sought shelter, and for this purpose three or four of the men commenced throwing dirt upon a large pile which we had previously thrown up.  Hardly had the second shovelful been added before an extraordinary movement amongst the dirt took place, and the police started back in wonder and alarm.

“What are you afraid of?” demanded Murden.

“We are afraid of nothing,” replied Maurice; “but the dirt appears to be bewitched.”

“Nonsense!  Strike the earth with the point of your shovels and let’s see what witchery there is concealed there,” cried the lieutenant, authoritatively.

Maurice no longer held back.  He raised his shovel and drove it into the soft earth, and the effect was electrical.

“Blast yer hies, vot is ye ’bout,” roared a voice that we instantly recollected; and before we could utter a word in astonishment, up rose the lank form of the genius Steel Spring.

“Is this the vay to treat a man vot does hevery thing he can to save ye?” the impudent wretch demanded, in an indignant tone.

“For God’s sake, how came you alive?” asked Murden, looking at the man as though he expected to see him disappear from before his eyes at a moment’s warning.

“O, it’s wery vell to ax me how I does a thing after I get’s out of a fix,” Steel Spring replied, with one of his grins; “but I know’d that I varn’t goin’ to kick the bucket vithout vun trial for my life.”