“By this time,” said Desborough.  “He was dying as I came away.”

“Would you mind stopping for a moment, captain?  Now tell me who was he?”

“Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin.”

Desborough told me his wild, despairing cry rang in his ears for years afterwards.

* * * * *

One wild, dreary day in spring, Major Buckley and I were admitted to the condemned cell in the gaol in Sydney.  Before us was a kind of bed place.  On it lay a man with his face buried in the pillow.  I advanced towards him, but the governor held me back.

“My God, sir,” he said, “take care!  Don’t, as you value your life, go within length of his chain.”

The handsome head was raised, and my eyes met George Hawker’s.  I could not see the fierce, desperate villain who had kept our country-side in terror so long; I could only see the handsome, curly-headed boy who used to play with James Stockbridge and myself in Drumston churchyard!  And, seeing him, and him only, I sat down beside him, and put my arm round his neck.

I don’t want to be instructed in my duty.  My duty as a magistrate was to stand at the farther end of the cell, and give this hardened criminal a moral lecture.  But I only hung there, with my arm round his neck, and said, “Oh, George, George!” like a fool.

He put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the face, and said, after a time, “What!  Hamlyn?  Old Jeff Hamlyn!  Jeff, old boy, I’m to be hung to-morrow.”

“I know it,” I said.  “And I came to ask if I could do anything for you.”

“Anything you like, old Jeff,” he said, with a laugh, “so long as you don’t get me reprieved.  I’ve murdered my own son, Jeff.  Do you know that?”

I answered, “Yes, I know that, George; but you did not know who he was.”

“He came at me to take my life,” said Hawker.  “And I tell you, if I had guessed who he was, I’d have blown my brains out to save him from the crime of killing me.”

The major came forward, and held out his hand to George Hawker, and asked him to forgive him; he had been his enemy since they first met.

“Let me tell you, major, I feel more kind and hearty towards you and Hamlyn for coming to me like this than I’ve felt towards any man this twenty years.  Time’s up, I see.  I ain’t so much of a coward, am I, Jeff?  Good-bye, old lad, good-bye!”

That was the last we saw of him; the next morning he was executed with four of his comrades.

* * * * *

After all this, we old folks taking up our residence at Baroona had agreed to make common house of it.  We were very dull at first, but I remember many pleasant evenings, when we played whist; and Mary Hawker, in her widow’s weeds, sat sewing by the fireside contentedly enough.

But one evening next spring in stalked Tom Troubridge; and, in short, he took her off with him, and they were married.  And I think I never saw a couple more sincerely attached than she and her husband.