“We have resolved to keep the money,” we said; “but as for retracing our steps to Melbourne, we hardly think that it will pay.  We have already been two weeks in the country, and have not dug the first ounce of gold.”

“And you may be six months here, and yet be unable to do so.  Let me reckon, and see how badly you have done.  In the first place, there are one thousand pounds reward offered for Darnley, dead or alive.  Prove to me that he is dead, and the money is your own.  For every bushranger killed or captured, one hundred pounds are offered, and I need not tell you that we have twelve here which I can verify—­four dead, two wounded, and six prisoners.  That is not a bad night’s work, I should think.”

“But we think it wrong to accept of money for shedding human blood,” Fred said.

“But you don’t think it wrong to delay your journey half a dozen days for the purpose of hunting men who would have cut your throats for a sixpence.  Throw aside all such ideas of propriety, and remember that you are in a country where the struggle for gold engrosses all other passions; men will look upon you as fools, to reject that which you are entitled to.  Go with me to Melbourne.  Help escort these villains to the city, for remember my force is weakened now, and I promise that you shall receive more pay for the service than you can make at the mines.”

“It is to help me to freedom,” cried Smith, who had approached us unperceived, during our conversation, and had listened to it attentively.

“For you we will do any thing, old friend,” we said, extending our hands to the honest convict, who grasped them eagerly, and shed tears of joy at the fair prospect which he possessed of once more being called a free man.

After making up our minds in regard to the course which we intended to pursue, we entered into the spirit of the undertaking with our whole hearts.  We prepared lint and bandages, and bound up the wounds of the bushrangers, and placed them beneath the roof of the hut which they had endeavored to storm the night before.  After we had accomplished this painful duty, we selected a place for the burial of those killed.

Beneath the branches of a cedar tree we scooped out the earth with a broken shovel, and then were about to place the bodies of the bushrangers in the grave, when the glistening of a ring on the middle finger of the right hand of one of the dead men attracted my attention.  I stooped down and removed the ring, and attentively examined it.

To my surprise, I found that it bore the emblems of the masonic fraternity—­a square and compass upon a broad disk, while on each side were small flakes of gold in their native state, placed layer upon layer, like the scales of a fish.  The ring I judged to weigh near an ounce, and was a massive hoop of gold, and made by some artist of rare talent.

I knew that the ruffian could not be a mason, and I was lost in conjecture, for a few moments, as to the probable fate of the owner.  There was no doubt that the robber had taken a fancy to it, and to obtain possession, had undoubtedly committed murder.  While it was passed from hand to hand, Smith suddenly exclaimed,—­