This confession seemed to awaken an interest in the bushrangers, for they crowded round Day as though desirous of an explanation; and from the point of our observation, carefully concealed by rank grass and rough rocks, we could observe the gang whisper to each other, and look at the shepherd, as though he could give an explanation if he was disposed to.

“What do you mean by your hints and frightened looks?” demanded the leader, in a tone that was intended to act as a warning, in case Day should attempt to deceive.

“O, what is the bloody use of my telling you coveys any thing?” the shepherd answered.  “You fellers who don’t care for the devil, wouldn’t believe me, and I should only get laughed at.  Have you seen my ram?”

“Blast your ram,” cried Sam, with an impatient air.  “We want to know what you mean by saying that you have seen strange sights?”

“Did I say that I had?” inquired Day, casting a rapid glance towards the woods, as though he feared the appearance of a horrid spectre.

“We are not to be trifled with, shepherd,” and as the leader spoke, he made a motion with his gun that was very significant, and Day understood it, although he manifested no signs of disquietude.

“Is it possible,” our friend asked, “that you have never heard of the Hunter of Mount Tarrengower?  A huge spectre that rides on a white horse sometimes, and who threatens with death all who invade his sacred retreats.  I have never seen the ghost, but one of my brother stockmen has, and he told me that he would not look upon the like again for the station, stock and all.”

“Why does he frequent this spot in preference to others?” demanded the leader of the gang, who seemed to be interested in the story in spite of his assumed indifference.

“O, an old stockman once told me that a shepherd was roasted near these diggings by a gang of bushrangers, who wanted him to give up some money that he had.  The covey was stuffy, and refused, or else he hadn’t got any, I don’t know which is the right story, but this I am positive of, I’d sooner give up all I was worth than be burned at the stake.”

“Perhaps the reason is, you are worth nothing,” suggested Sam, after a brief survey of the speaker.

“You have hit the nail of the coffin on its head this time,” chuckled Day.  “I don’t see a sovereign from one year’s end to t’other, and don’t ’spect to till my time has expired, so that I can work for myself.”

“You are a ticket of leave man, then?” demanded Sam, with more feeling than he had shown during the interview.

“Well, if I wasn’t I shouldn’t be here, working for thirty pounds a year, when there’s gold to be dug for the mere paying of a license.  No, no, just wait till I can call myself my own master, and then the sheep and stock may go to the devil, for all that I care.”

“Can’t you tell us something more about the ghost?” asked one of the men, who seemed to take an especial interest in Day’s narrative.