of this dreary region to satisfy me as to its present condition.  How then shall I satisfy others?  That Stony Desert was, I believe, the bed of a former stream, but how can I speak decidedly on the little I have observed of it.  No! as we have been forced back from one point, I must try another,—­and I hope you will not throw any impediment in the way.  There is every reason why you should return to Adelaide:  your health is seriously impaired,—­you are in constant pain,—­and your affairs are going to ruin; on all these considerations I would urge you to comply with my wishes.”  Mr. Browne admitted the truth of what I said, but felt certain that if he left, it would only be to hear of my having perished in that horrid desert,—­that my life was too valuable to others to be so thrown away,—­that he owed me too much to forsake me, and that he could not do that of which his conscience would ever after reproach him;—­that his brother would attend to his interests, and that if it were otherwise, it would be no excuse for him to desert his friend,—­that he would acquiesce in any other arrangement, but to leave me he could not.  “Well,” I said, “I ask nothing unreasonable from you, nothing but what the sternness of duty calls for; and if you will not yield to friendly solicitations, I must order you home.”  “I cannot go,” he replied; “I do not care for any pecuniary reward for my services, and will give it up:  I want no pay, but desert you I will not.”  The reader will better imagine than I can describe, such a scene passing in the heart of a wilderness, and under such circumstances I may not state all that passed; suffice it to say, that we at length separated, with an assurance on Mr. Browne’s part, that he would consider what I had proposed, and speak to me again in the morning.  The morning came, and after breakfast, he said he had endeavoured to force himself into a compliance with my wishes, but to no purpose;—­that he could not leave me, and had made up his mind to take the consequences.  It was in vain that I remonstrated, and I therefore ceased to importune him on a point which, however much I might regret his decision, I could not but feel that he was influenced by the most disinterested anxiety for my safety.  But it became necessary to make some other arrangements; I had already been four days idle, and it was not my intention to let the week so pass over my head.  Mr. Browne was too ill to accompany me again into the field.  I sent, therefore, for Mr. Stuart, and told him to put up ten weeks provisions for four men,—­to warn Morgan and Mack that I should require them to attend me when I again left the camp,—­and to hold himself and them in readiness to commence the journey the day but one following; as I felt the horses required the rest I should myself otherwise have rejected.

I then sent for Mr. Browne, and told him that I proposed leaving the stockade in two days, by which time I hoped the horses would in some measure have recovered from their fatigues,—­that as he could not attend me, I should take Mr. Stuart with two fresh men,—­that in making my arrangements I found that I should be obliged to take all the horses but two, the one he rode and a weaker animal; to this, however, he would by no means consent—­entreating me to take his horse also, as he felt assured I should want all the strength I could get.