While serving his sentence of seven years he was flogged four times; three of the times he said he had “done nothing,” and for the fourth flogging he confessed to me that he had “done something,” but he did not say what the “something” was.  In those days it seems that “doing nothing” and “doing something” were crimes equally meriting the lash.

And now after a long life of labour the old convict had achieved independence at last.  I don’t think I ever met a richer man; he was richer than the whole family of the Rothschilds; he wanted scarcely anything.  Food and clothing he obtained for the asking for them, and he was not particular as to their quality of the quantity was sufficient.  Property to him was something despicable; he did not want any, and would not live inside of a house if he had one; he preferred the outside.  He was free from family cares—­never had father or mother, sister or brother, wife or children.  No poor relatives ever claimed his hospitality; no intimate friends wanted to borrow half-a-crown; no one ever asked him to buy suburban lots, or to take shares in a limited liability company.  He was perfectly indifferent to all danger from bush-rangers, burglars, pickpockets, or cattle stealers; he did not even own a dog, so the dogman never asked him for the dog tax.  He never enquired about the state of the money market, nor bothered himself about the prices of land or cattle, wood, wine, or wheat.  Every bank, and brewery, and building society in the world might go into liquidation at once for aught he cared.  He had retired from the Government service, had superannuated himself on a pension of nothing per annum, and to draw it he required no voucher.

And yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, I don’t think there are many men who would voluntarily choose his lot.  I watched him from the end of the verandah, and began speculating about him.  What was he thinking about during his solitary watches in the night or while he tramped alone through the bush year after year in heat and cold, wind and rain?  Did he ever think of anything—­of his past life, or of his future lot?  Did he believe in or hope for a heaven? or had he any fear of hell and eternal punishment?  Surely he had been punished enough; in this life he had endured evil things in plenty, and might at least hope for eternal rest in the next.

He was sitting with his back against a gum tree, and his feet towards the fire.  From time to time he threw a few more sticks on the embers, and a fitful blaze lit up his dark weatherbeaten face.

Then to my surprise he began to sing, and to sing well.  His voice was strong, clear, and mellow, and its tones rose and fell in the silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness.  The burden of his song was “We may be happy yet.”

“Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile,
Before a weight of care
Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile
Left only sorrow there;
We may be happy yet.”