Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers. Stables Gordon

into the the prisoner’s mouth. He must have been a good man.

      But we gathered enough from their conversation, brief as it was, to quite frighten us.

      “He’s on the moor,” said one, “and they’re bound to have him.”

      “A desperate character, isn’t he?”

      “Rather. Kill you as soon as wink.”

      Then they went on.

      Who was this desperate character, abroad on the moor?

      “Surely they can’t refer to me, Jill?” I said.

      “Oh no,” said Jill; “certainly not. They would have mentioned me, you know.”

      “I don’t think so, Jill. You are not such a desperate character as I am.”

      “Oh yes; I’m ten times worse,” said Jill, awfully.

      We soon after came into a country high, bleak, and desolate, with only here and there a clump of trees. Hills there were in plenty, but houses none.

      And night was falling fast, and both of us were getting very tired. We would have to sleep out, that was evident, and so determined to take the first available shelter. So on coming to a bushy gully, with a tiny streamlet going singing down the centre of it, we left the road and followed the water upwards, and were soon at the foot of a rock. To my surprise, on pulling some bushes aside I found a cave.

      Some shepherd’s, evidently, we thought, for here was a bed of withered ferns, soft and dry; and not far from the mouth of the cave a place where a fire had been.

      So we camped at once and lit a fire, for I had forgotten nothing. We made the fire between some stones, and placed thereon our tin billy with water to boil for tea.

      We soon had made an excellent supper, and Jill’s dear eyes sparkled as he sipped his tea.

      “What a splendid bushman you are, Jack!” he said. “This is a first-rate sort of a life, and, don’t you know, I wouldn’t mind living this way for a month.”

      “Well,” I said, “it seems pretty safe; and I propose we do stop here for a few days. By that time they will think we are far away, and never look here for us.”

      “Agreed,” said Jill.

      Then we went and gathered a quantity of fern, so that we had quite a delightful bed in the cave; and as night was now over all the wastes around us, we determined to retire. The stars were out and glimmering down, and bats wheeling about, and every now and then the tu-whit – tu-whoo! of the brown owl made us start. It sounded so close to us, and oh, it was so mournful!

      Other than that there was not a sound to be heard. We crept in, and I lit a candle as coolly as if I had been an old campaigner. I stuck it between two stones. Then I read a bit from mother’s Bible, and down we lay after that, leaving the candle burning for company’s sake. We did not like to be quite in the dark in so eeriesome a place.

      But tired as we were, we lay and talked and planned for hours, and when I looked at my watch – yes, we each had a watch – I was surprised to find it was nearly twelve o’clock.

      “We needn’t hurry up in the morning though, Jill.”

      “Assuredly not,” said Jill.

      Five minutes after we were sound asleep.

      It might have been an hour afterwards, or it might have been two. I know not. But I do know we both awoke with a start at the same moment, and sat up shaking and trembling with fear.

      A terrible-looking man stood in the cave gazing down at us.

      Chapter Eight

      Good Advice from a Strange Quarter – Midnight and Anxiety

      The state of my mind at this moment must have been akin to that of a snake-charmed bird. I felt utterly, abjectly helpless. Had the apparition taken a knife out and proceeded to kill us, I do not think I should have lifted a hand or uttered a cry, except a frightened moan like a person in a nightmare.

      He stood and looked down at us long and earnestly. A strangely haggard, but not an evil face, black beard of a week’s growth perhaps, and short dark hair hardly seen for the napkin that bound his head instead of a hat or cap.

      We found voice at last, both at the same time. “Oh, sir,” we said, beseechingly, “do not kill us!” He started as we spoke the last two words, started as if stung, and gazed behind him with quick dramatic action, his black eyes all ablaze for the moment. So have I often since seen a hunted wolf look when at bay.

      The first words he spoke betrayed him to be a foreigner.

      “Kill!” he said, “what for I kill you? You alone? All alone?”

      “Yes,” we replied, “yes, sir, quite alone.”

      “’Tis goot. Do not fear me. Where go you to-morrow day? What you do here?”

      I glanced at him for a moment before I spoke, and the truth flashed across my mind. This was the terrible convict we heard the soldiers say was abroad on the moor. He was not in convict dress, and though his coat was in rags, his boots were good. We learned from him, afterwards, that he had exchanged clothes, strange though it appeared, with a scarecrow. There was some humour here, though sadly blended with deepest pathos.

      No, this man might rob, but he would not kill us. He was in trouble like ourselves. So we told him we were running away from school.

      He looked at us again, and I saw he believed us. “Angleese, I not speak much. I am Español. I am a convict. Do not fear. I have never kill one. No – no – no.”

      He sat down beside the candle and took out a knife and a turnip.

      Something told me the poor fellow was famishing. I jumped up and went to my bag, and placed bread and bacon in his hand. He ate ravenously and thanked me. Perhaps it was only fancy, but I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

      While he ate, much to our astonishment, a little black mouse ran down his sleeve, and sat on the back of his left hand, which he took care to keep still. The creature ate hungrily of the crumbs he gave it, and when finished, he held out his little finger, around which the mouse entwined both its little arms, while it licked it as lovingly as a dog would have done. Then, at a sign from the convict, it once more retreated.

      I am sure, even now, that it was his love for the gentle wee mouse that made Jill and I take to this man, and believe what he told us. Briefly, his story was this: