And now the sun began to set red as blood, and the place to sparkle far and wide with the fiery rays emitted from a hundred thousand bottles that lay sown broadcast over the land; and the thunder of the cradles ceased, and the accordions came out all over five miles of gold mine.  Their gentler strains lasted till the sun left the sky; then, just at dusk, came a tremendous discharge of musketry roaring, rattling, and re-echoing among the rocks.  This was tens of thousands of diggers discharging their muskets and revolvers previous to reloading them for the night; for, calm as the sun had set to the music of accordions, many a deadly weapon they knew would be wanted to defend life and gold ere that same tranquil sun should rise again.

Thus the tired army slept not at their ease, like other armies, guarded by sentinels and pickets, but every man in danger every night and every hour of it.  Each man lay in his clothes with a weapon of death in his hand; Robinson with two, a revolver and a cutlass ground like a razor.  Outside it was all calm and peaceful.  No boisterous revelry—­all seemed to sleep innocent and calm in the moonlight after the day of herculean toil.

Perhaps if any one eye could have visited the whole enormous camp, the children of theft and of the night might have been seen prowling and crawling from one bit of shade to another.  But in the part where our friends lay the moon revealed no human figures but Robinson’s patrol, three men, who, with a dark-lantern and armed to the teeth, went their rounds and guarded forty tents, above all the captain’s.  It was at his tent that guard was relieved every two hours.  So all was watched the livelong night.

Two pointed rocks connected at the base faced the captain’s tent.  The silver rays struck upon their foreheads wet with the vapors of night, and made them like frost seen through phosphorus.  It was startling.  The soul of silver seemed to be sentinel and eye the secret gold below.

And now a sad, a miserable sound grated on the ear of night.  A lugubrious quail doled forth a grating, dismal note at long but measured intervals, offending the ear and depressing the heart.  This was the only sound Nature afforded for hours.  The neighboring bush, though crammed with the merriest souls that ever made feathers vibrate and dance with song, was like a tomb of black marble; not a sound—­only this little raven of a quail tolled her harsh, lugubrious crake.

Those whose musical creed is Time before Sentiment might have put up with this night-bird; for to do her justice she was a perfect timist—­one crake in a bar the livelong night; but her tune—­ugh!  She was the mother of all files that play on iron throughout the globe.  Crake!—­crake!—­crake! untuning the night.

An eye of red light suddenly opened in the silver stream shows three men standing by a snowy tent.  It is the patrol waiting to be relieved.  Three more figures emerge from the distant shade and join them.  The first three melt into the shade.