“But there were others who were confined with more serious charges against them than yourself, and yet you know that many of them were pardoned, or obtained tickets of leave, and are now doing well.”

“Yes, because they became slaves to your will, and played the spy upon those who dared to remonstrate against the food and the treatment which they received.  I was one of their victims, and well I paid for my independence.”

“You did, indeed,” muttered the inspector, but Bill did not hear him.

“I went to the hulks determined to serve out my time like a man; but a few weeks’ residence convinced me that, unless I became a slave, and trembled at the officer’s nod, I should be broken in body and spirit.  Then I laid my plans for an insurrection of the convicts, and had I not trusted to your minion, Ned, you would not have been driving me to certain death at the present time.”

“Well, what would you have done?” asked the inspector, quietly.

“There were eight hundred of us, all desperate men, and reckless of life.  We should have murdered our officers, and then, before an alarm could have reached the soldiers, we should have attacked their quarters, and those who would not have joined us must have perished without mercy.  Afterwards we intended to sack Melbourne, collect all the gold that we could, and seek for asylums upon some of the islands in the broad Pacific.  Such was our programme, and it would not have failed, I am convinced; but your spies destroyed our hopes, and brought me to punishment and shame.”

The bushranger strode on as though he was at the head of an army, and his dark features were lighted up at the thought of the carnage which he and his companions intended to inflict.

“Your plot could not have succeeded,” the inspector said, after a moment’s pause, “because every citizen in Melbourne would have armed himself, and hunted you to the death.  But we will not discuss the subject.  You failed in your design, and were punished as you deserved to be.  Were I in the same position that I then held, and should another attempt be made to revolt, I should recommend, not the lash, but death to all who were engaged.”

“Better death a hundred times, than a hundred lashes,” cried the bushranger, with a fearful oath.  “But I have revenged myself for the, flogging, and for every lash I have made some one pay dear.”

“Bah! that is all talk!” cried the inspector, in a careless way; but I saw that he was trembling with anxiety to learn a correct history of the prisoner’s outrages.

“Is it all talk?” repeated Bill, with a sneer.  “It was talk, I suppose, when we robbed the escort of thirty thousand pounds.  It was talk, I suppose, when we picked off six of the soldiers, and drove the rest, like frightened curs, from the treasure.  It is talk, when I tell you that we have been in the vicinity of Ballarat for two months past, and have watched for you night and day, and never got a chance to strike until to-day.  Talk, is it?  Well, we have talked to some purpose, and even if I am a prisoner, I feel satisfied.”