“You cannot come with me.  The place which I know as auriferous is some miles distant, the way rugged.  You cannot walk to it.  It is true I have horses, but—­”

“Do you think I have come this distance and not foreseen and forestalled all that I want for my object?  Trouble yourself not with conjectures how I can arrive at the place.  I have provided the means to arrive at and leave it.  My litter and its bearers are in reach of my call.  Give me your arm to the rising ground, fifty yards from your door.”

I obeyed mechanically, stifling all surprise.  I had made my resolve, and admitted no thought that could shake it.

When we reached the summit of the grassy hillock, which sloped from the road that led to the seaport, Margrave, after pausing to recover breath, lifted up his voice, in a key, not loud, but shrill and slow and prolonged, half cry and half chant, like the nighthawk’s.  Through the air—­so limpid and still, bringing near far objects, far sounds—­the voice pierced its way, artfully pausing, till wave after wave of the atmosphere bore and transmitted it on.

In a few minutes the call seemed re-echoed, so exactly, so cheerily, that for the moment I thought that the note was the mimicry of the shy mocking lyre bird, which mimics so merrily all that it hears in its coverts, from the whir of the locust to the howl of the wild dog.

“What king,” said the mystical charmer, and as he spoke he carelessly rested his hand on my shoulder, so that I trembled to feel that this dread son of Nature, Godless and soulless, who had been—­and, my heart whispered, who still could be—­my bane and mind darkener, leaned upon me for support, as the spoiled younger-born on his brother—­“what king,” said this cynical mocker, with his beautiful boyish face—­“what king in your civilized Europe has the sway of a chief of the East?  What link is so strong between mortal and mortal as that between lord and slave?  I transport you poor fools from the land of their birth; they preserve here their old habits—­obedience and awe.  They would wait till they starved in the solitude—­wait to hearken and answer my call.  And I, who thus rule them, or charm them—­I use and despise them.  They know that, and yet serve me!  Between you and me, my philosopher, there is but one thing worth living for—­life for oneself.”

Is it age, is it youth, that thus shocks all my sense, in my solemn completeness of man?  Perhaps, in great capitals, young men of pleasure will answer, “It is youth; and we think what he says!” Young friends, I do not believe you.

II

Along the grass track I saw now, under the moon, just risen, a strange procession—­never seen before in Australian pastures.  It moved on, noiselessly but quickly.  We descended the hillock, and met it on the way; a sable litter, borne by four men, in unfamiliar Eastern garments; two other servitors, more bravely dressed, with yataghans and silver-hilted pistols in their belts, preceded this somber equipage.  Perhaps Margrave divined the disdainful thought that passed through my mind, vaguely and half-unconsciously; for he said with a hollow, bitter laugh that had replaced the lively peal of his once melodious mirth: