I disliked the idea of shedding blood, and hesitated; but before Fred had driven his rifle ball home there was a discharge opposite to us, and another bushranger fell bleeding to the ground.

They raised a startling yell for vengeance, and rushed towards the spot where the smoke was ascending from the discharged musket.  Before they had reached half way across the clearing, Fred and myself poured in our deadly fire, and two more of the escaped convicts fell mortally wounded.

They were then seized with a panic, and separating, each one seemed determined to seek safety in flight; but before they gained the shelter of the woods our revolvers were brought into requisition, and one more ravisher was made to bite the dust.

“May the God of Israel give us strength to kill them,” shouted the convict, bursting through the thick bushes with his long gun in hand, and his white hair streaming over his shoulders.

“No mercy to the scoundrels,” cried Smith, waving his heavy axe over his head, and advancing at a run in pursuit.

That cry came near being his last; for one of the bushrangers, seeing that he had no gun, suddenly turned in his flight, and raising his musket, presented it full at the broad breast of Smith.  The latter did not falter or dodge, but rushed towards the robber with uplifted axe, uttering, as he advanced, a wild cry that startled me, it was so loud and shrill, and sounded like the last yell of a dying man in agony.

I feared to see the villain discharge his musket, for I knew that Smith was so near that he could not well be missed.  I would have shot the fellow myself, but my rifle was empty; still thinking to save him, I ran hastily towards the parties; but before I had advanced ten steps I saw the bushranger’s musket flash in the pan, but no report followed.  His gun had missed fire.

Throwing down the weapon with an oath, the ruffian drew a long knife; but before he had an opportunity to use it the heavy axe descended upon his unprotected head, and crashing through skull and brains, it clove him to the chine.

With no groan or word he fell; and when I reached the side of Smith there was not another bushranger left to battle with.  We were masters of the field, and not one of us had received a wound.

“Let us praise God for this victory,” cried the aged convict, removing his apology for a hat, and casting his eyes heavenward.

“Humph,” grunted Smith; “we’d better make preparations for quitting these woods, instead of praying, according to my fancy.”

“To Him alone belongs the praise for this day’s work—­for this mighty triumph,” cried the old man, whose religious feelings were all awakened by the carnage.

“I don’t dispute that the Lord lent his aid, but to my mind, if it hadn’t been for these two Americans, he’d deserted us in the hour of need.  Two good rifle shots are a great help towards obtaining a victory,” exclaimed Smith, wiping his axe of the crimson gore which still adhered to it, and glancing around the clearing, as though he expected there might be more bushrangers starting up to offer battle at any moment.