“Bushrangers?” our host continued.

At this question the two natives seemed puzzled, and they looked at each other as though wondering what answer they should return.

“Two of them were not men,” at length the native said.

“Boys?” suggested Mr. Wright.

The faintest shadow of a smile stole over their faces as Kala replied,—­

“No boys.  Wear things like shirt round legs, and funny hats on heads.”

“Why, darn it, the rascals mean women,” cried our host, with some energy and considerable relief.

“Yes,” was the prompt reply of Kala.

“They won’t hurt you, man, unless they happen to fall in love with your black skin and marry you.  Then I’d not be responsible for your head.”

“Men have long guns, and little guns in belts,” continued Kala.

“Pooh!” said Mr. Wright, turning to us and refilling our glasses, “the poor fellows have got frightened at their shadows.  They have seen a small party of miners on their way to Ballarat, and it’s probable that they have missed the direct road and got on one of the numerous trails which sometimes puzzle the best stockmen.  They will find their way out after a fashion, although this is rather a hard night for exposing females.  You can go,” he said, addressing the two natives, but the men still lingered as though not satisfied with their visit.

“Miners no kill children,” Kala exclaimed, briefly.

“How?  Who has killed children?” demanded Mr. Wright, setting his glass upon the table, its contents untouched.

Mr. Brown pricked up his ears and listened, for he had a slight knowledge, of the aboriginal language, and understood a portion of the conversation.

“Men take child and throw against a tree.  No cry more,” Kala said.

“The brutes!” muttered Mr. Wright, struck with consternation at the atrocity of the deed.

“Four men, two women,” continued Kala, holding up his fingers for us to count.  “All come this way, and seem in a hurry.  Women cry, and men swear; men make them ride on horses to go fast.”

“This is news indeed,” Mr. Wright said, turning to us, “and I hardly know what to make of it.  Can you solve the riddle?” addressing Mr. Brown.

“It is plain,” my friend rejoined.  “A party of miners have been attacked by the bushrangers, and the latter are now endeavoring to escape with two women prisoners.  The fellows probably belong to Tyrell’s gang, and will make towards Mount Tarrengower to join him.”

The solution seemed probable, and for a few moments there was a profound silence.  The natives glanced from face to face as though endeavoring to read the thoughts of the white men, although they did not appear much distressed at the events which they had related.

“I pity the poor women,” remarked Mr. Wright, at length.  “Their fate will be a sad one, and death a welcome release from their sufferings.”