‘Do you know the reason of the attempt to arrest Ryder?’ said Jim, breaking the long silence.

’The troopers called him Solo.  I have heard of a notorious gold robber of that name.  Mrs. Macdougal says a new shepherd called Brummy recognised him.’  She gave Done a concise account of the arrest and Ryder’s escape.  ‘That is Wallaroo you are riding,’ she said in conclusion, ’and Mr. Macdougal is furious over his loss.  I believe it was he who shot Mr. Ryder.’

‘If Ryder dies, I’ll kill Macdougal!’

Lucy turned sharply, and looked at Jim.  He had spoken the words in a tone sounding almost casual, curiously incongruous with their grim significance.  She knew that he meant what he had said, and her heart sank.

‘You would not be so mad,’ she said.

‘Let us push on,’ he replied, disregarding her comment.

Lucy had experienced no difficulty in finding Jim.  Since his visit to Boobyalla she had been three times to Jim Crow with parties on horseback, and knew the country well.

They reached the mouth of the gorge at about eleven o’clock, and had ridden only about two hundred yards along the bed of the creek, when Yarra arose from a clump of scrub-ferns at Lucy’s side.

‘Come longa me,’ he said.  ‘Boss Ryder plenty sick.’

Yarra had left the outlaw two hours earlier.  Ryder was then tossing feverishly on his rough couch.  The small cave in which he lay was situated some thirty yards up the side of the gorge, and the hot morning sun reached it early, converting it into an oven of stone.  The wounded man was suffering acutely; his wound had become a burning agony that had no longer a limit:  the pain of it penetrated his whole being.  Soon after the black boy’s departure Ryder ceased to toss and turn, movement only increasing his torment.  He now lay very still on the floor of the cave; his eyes had a feline lustre in the dim light, his face was as white and hollow as that of a corpse, saving for the fever spot that burned in either cheek.  Gradually his mind was drifting from his danger and his sufferings—­it was fashioning strange images, mere dreams, but startlingly realistic.  From the first one or two he reverted to sanity and to a fleeting sense of his position, and then the images trooped in again, the visions reappeared—­beautiful visions of coolness, and sweetness, and shade that, it seemed later, only came to tantalize him.  He was now a soul in hell, tortured with the sight of clustering green trees and flowing streams.  Through all these dreams one sweet sound prevailed.  He recognised it at length:  it was the music of falling water—­beautiful, cold, clear water, falling in thin sheets from the high rock and breaking into snow on the edge of the deep stone basin.  He lifted himself upon his hands and listened.  Yes, there was a waterfall below him, so near that he might almost reach and dip his fingers into it, and he was set in flame that lapped him round, licking