Part 37 (2/2)
”I hope no mischief will befall him,” said another; and then they fell to consulting, in cautious tones, as to the next best proceeding; whether to press on farther, or to retrace their steps, and examine some of the ravines, so as to join the strength they hoped by that time to meet approaching from the lower part of the Gap, while, at the same time, they would pick up Mr Meadows.
”I should be for going on,” said Lawler, ”only that I think the last plan is the better; for I can't help thinking they have never come up here. Let's go back: we're losing time.”
Following out his suggestion, the men rose, and began, with the same precautions, to retrace their steps, by this time spreading out in a more extended line; while, about the same time, a party of a dozen friends commenced the ascent of the Gap, following the plainly-marked track left by the first detachment.
STORY THREE, CHAPTER NINETEEN.
MR MEADOWS'S WEAKNESS.
Mr Meadows struggled on, hour after hour, with his companions, only enabled to keep up with them by their exceedingly slow progress; for, from time to time, he would sit for a few minutes while they pa.s.sed on for some little distance, and then, following the track, he would overtake them at their slow, watchful pace.
He pressed on; sometimes tottering, sometimes resting so long that he had to strive hard to reach the last man. The heat seemed to overcome him; and at last, seating himself by the bright stream, upon whose banks he was, he let five, ten, twenty minutes, an hour slip away, heedless of all save the exhaustion that had enervated him.
Gradually a delicious sleep stole upon him, and then for a while all was blank.
But at length the weary man awoke, and started in pursuit of his companions, reproaching himself for his cruelty in sleeping at an hour like this; though, at the time, his forward progress was but a weary totter from tree to tree, against whose trunks he was often glad to lean his hands.
”It is of no use,” he groaned. ”I'm worn out; and until Nature has done her part of restoration, I am helpless as a child.”
He sat down, and rested again, and then rose; for the distant report of a gun fell upon his ear; repeated, too, once or twice; and turning from his companions' track, he faced towards that side of the Gap from amidst whose craggy fastnesses the sound seemed to proceed.
”I have no strength,” muttered Mr Meadows feebly; ”but I have still my eyesight, and I may be able to play the spy. Why are they not here?
They have gone on too far; but if they hear the firing, they will soon return.”
He pa.s.sed through the dense undergrowth, and then stopped short, for he had hit upon a well-marked track, which looked as if the gra.s.s had been trampled down by footprints to and fro.
”Strange,” he said, ”that it should fall to the weakest of the party to discover this. I'll go on; but not in the guise of warfare;” and he leaned his gun against a tree, and toiled patiently along the track. No easy task, for it led up and up, along the valley side, higher and higher; each few steps giving a view over the tops of the trees just pa.s.sed.
”Not the way taken by the gallant young man,” he muttered, ”for not one of the branches he was to have broken, has met my eye. It is plain that I have not struck upon his track; but I may be able to report good news to our friends on my return.”
Once more came the faint, m.u.f.fled sound of a gun; and collecting his fast-flagging energies, Mr Meadows pushed on, until breathless, and with bleeding hands and knees, he stood looking down with astonishment into a little rocky amphitheatre, strewn with provisions and the plunder taken by the convicts from the Moa's Nest.
He stepped down, for the place appeared to be quite forsaken, and vainly tried to make out the cause of its being untenanted, when, looking round, he started with dismay; for half-seated, half-lying, with his back to the rocks, was the form of a human being, but so disfigured, that it seemed impossible for life to exist in such a ruin. But life was there; for, to the clergyman's horror, he saw that the man was engaged with a knife in his left hand, slowly and deliberately trying to back off his right at the wrist.
For a few moments, Mr Meadows could not speak; then, hurrying up, he arrested the man, exclaiming, ”Surely, friend, that operation cannot be necessary?”
”Let it be--let it be,” was the answer, in a strange, muttering voice, which came from the mutilated face. ”It's a vile hand--a bad hand, stained with crime.”
It required but little effort to wrest the knife from the convict's hand; and then, binding a handkerchief round the bleeding wrist, Mr Meadows gazed, shuddering, in the man's face, as his head fell back, and he fainted.
”He cannot live through those injuries,” muttered the clergyman. And leaning forward, he dropped a little brandy from the flask he carried between the man's lips, when, after a few minutes, he revived, and spoke in a more collected way.
”Is any one there?” he asked.
”Yes; there is one here,” was the reply.
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