Even the flesh of the kangaroo which we had hung upon the limb of a tree was saved; but our store of salt pork was gone, also the few vegetables, worth almost their weight in gold at the mines, which had been treasured until we should arrive at our destination.

Fred uttered a curse when he found that there was not a single potato left; but, after he had vented his displeasure, he applied his energies to the matter before him with all his usual determination.

Fred’s clothing and my own, contained in one small canvas bag, was gone, and we stood in all that we owned.  That did not distress us, however, for we were not likely to go into society where a change of dress was expected, but we did growl when we found that the scamps had carried off all our powder, excepting what our flasks contained.

“Whose work is this?” asked Fred, who was broiling a piece of kangaroo on a stick, and in a very artistic manner, for the purpose of tempting the poor woman’s appetite.

Smith, to whom the question was addressed, straightened his stout form, and held up a number of flannel shirts, which he was taking to the mines on a venture.  They had been cut with knives in the most wanton manner, and hardly a square inch had escaped.

“There is evidence enough of the perpetrator,” replied Smith, pointing to the holes.

“Well, who is he?” cried Fred, sprinkling a little salt upon the burning flesh.

“There is but one gang of bushrangers in these parts who inflict wanton injury upon the goods of carriers.  That gang is Darnley’s!”

“And yet you pardoned him once when he was in your power,” I said.

“True; and had I been here my cargo would have escaped molestation.  He little thought that he was injuring me.  I will do him the justice of saying that.”

“He and his gang should be swept from the face of the earth,” cried Fred, who, having cooked and seasoned the meat to his satisfaction, now approached the woman, who was lying upon a blanket, apparently unconscious of what was going on around her.

He had but uttered the words when she started to her feet, grasped his arm with a vehemence utterly at variance with her previous docility, and exclaimed,—­

“You are right, Kill the monster!  Kill him, for he is unfit to live.  Kill him, for he has wronged an unprotected woman, and committed outrages that will condemn him to eternal punishment in the next world.”

She released her grasp of Fred and fell to the ground, where she sat rocking her body to and fro, uttering moans of anguish.  But she no longer shed tears, and her eyes looked wild and threatening, as though her troubles had affected her reason.

“Who talks of killing?” cried a deep voice.  “That is God’s prerogative, not man’s nor vain woman’s.”

We started, and turning saw that the convict stockman had approached us unawares, and was leaning on his long gun, keenly scanning the features of the unfortunate woman.