After Milmeridien came a thick scrub, through which Kalingalunga tracked his way; and then a loud hurrah burst from all, for they were free—­the net was broken.  There were the mountains before them and the gaunt wood behind them at last.  The native camp was visible two miles distant, and thither the party ran and found food and fires in abundance.  Black sentinels were set at such distances as to render a surprise impossible, and the travelers were invited to sleep and forget all their troubles.  Robinson and Jem did sleep, and George would have been glad to, and tried, but was prevented by an unfortunate incident—­les enfans terribles found out his infirmity, viz., that nothing they could do would make him hit them.  So half a dozen little rascals, potter bellied than you can conceive, climbed up and down George, sticking in their twenty claws like squirrels, and feeling like cold, slippery slugs.  Thus was sleep averted, until a merciful gin, hearing the man’s groans, came and cracked two or three of these little black pots with a waddie or club, so then George got leave to sleep, and just as he was dozing off, ting, tong, ti tong, tong, tong, came a fearful drumming of parchment.  A corroboree or native dance was beginning.  No more sleep till that was over—­so all hands turned out.  A space was cleared in the wood, women stood on both sides with flaming boughs and threw a bright red light upon a particular portion of that space; the rest was dark as pitch.  Time, midnight.  When the white men came up the dancing had not begun.  Kalingalunga was singing a preliminary war song.

George had picked up some of the native language, and he explained to the other that Jacky was singing about some great battle, near the Wurra-Gurra River.

“The Wurra-Gurra! why, that is where we first found gold.”

“Why of course it is! and—­yes!  I thought so.”

“Thought what?”

“It is our battle he is describing.”

“Which of ’em?—­we live in hot water.”

“The one before Jem was our friend.  What is he singing?  Oh, come! that is overdoing it, Jacky!  Why, Jem! he is telling them he killed you on the spot.”

“I’ll punch his head!”

“No! take it easy,” said Robinson; “he is a poet; this is what they call poetical license.”

“Lie without sense, I call it—­when here is the man.”

      “Ting tong! ting tong tong!—­
       I slew him —­ he fell —­ by the Wurra-Gurra River. 
       I slew him! —­ ting tong! he fell —­ting tong! 
       By the Wurra-Gurra River—­ting ting tong!”

This line Jacky repeated at least forty times; but he evaded monotony by the following simple contrivance: 

     “I slew him; he fell by the Wurra-Gurra River—­ting tong!
     I slew him; he fell, by the Wurra-Gurra River,
      I slew him; he fell, by the Wurra-Gurra River,"