“I cannot leave him,” she shrieked, clasping her arms around his neck, and pressing her head upon his bosom.  “He has been my only friend for years; he did not despise me when he knew that my parent was a convict; he has loved me, and is the father of my children.  Let me remain with him, and die upon his breast.”

“This is madness,” Fred cried, impatiently.

“Hush,” said Smith.  “Consider what the poor thing has suffered, and treat her gently as a sister.”

The stout convict, whose heart had been strongly touched by her story and deep love, raised her in his arms, soothed her, spoke words of comfort to her, and promised if she would but leave the spot, that the body of her husband should soon follow her, and be buried in a Christian-like manner.

She listened like one who did not comprehend his meaning, and all the time that he was talking, her eyes were fixed upon the pale face of her husband, as though she expected each moment to hear his voice, and see him start to his feet, and open his arms for her protection.

With gentle force we urged her away from the distressing sight, and when, after long labor, we had gained the bank of the ravine, we found that the poor woman was nearly unconscious, and hardly capable of moving.

“Where now?” I asked of Smith, as we carried her along.

“To the hut of Ogleton,” he cried; “and then, if I mistake not, we shall have work before us.”

“What kind of work?” asked Fred, who was carrying the rifles, and the sharp axe of the convict.

“The work of revenge,” cried Smith, solemnly.

“I am ready for it,” exclaimed Fred, brandishing his rifle; “God only grant us all strength to perform it.”

And as we staggered along the prairie with our burden, the dark clouds in the east broke away, and revealed the glowing tints of the rising sun; and a hundred bright-plumed birds darted through the air, awakening the solitude of that vast plain with their shrill calls, and each cry seemed to say, “Revenge! revenge!”

CHAPTER VII.

Black Darnley’s villany.—­The convict stockman.

A brighter sun never shone upon the barren plains and fertile valleys of Australia, than that which appeared above the horizon on the morning after the murder and deed of violence committed by Black Darnley and his gang of bushrangers.  Our party had not closed their eyes in sleep during the night, yet not one of us felt the least fatigue or desire to rest, until the woman, who was under our protection, had been placed beneath the shelter of her father’s roof, humble as it was, and removed from all society and scenes of civilization.

As we supported the unhappy woman towards the habitation of the convict, and spoke words of encouragement which fell upon listless ears, we thought of a parent’s love, and how strong it must exist in the heart of that old man, who had grown morose under his wrongs, yet still clung to the recollection of his child, and fancied her a girl, instead of a full-grown woman, and the mother of a family.