The men stood silent—­neither cared to tell the other all he felt—­for now there crept over these two stout bosoms a terrible chill, the sense of a danger new to them in experience, but not new in report.  They had heard of settlers and others who had been lost in the fatal labyrinth of the Australian bush, and now they saw how easily it might be true.

“We may as well sit down here and rest; we shall do no good till night.  What, are you in pain, George?”

“Yes, Tom, a little.”

“Where?”

“Something gnaws my stomach like an adder.”

“Oh, that is the soldier’s gripes,” said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at a jest.  “Poor George!” said he, kindly, “I dare say you never knew what it was to go twenty-four hours without food before.”

“Never in my life, Tom.”

“Well, I have, and I’ll tell you the only thing to do—­when you can’t fill the breadbasket, shut it.  Go to sleep till the Southern Cross comes out again.”

“What, sleep in our dripping clothes?”

“No, we will make a roaring fire with these strips of bark; they are dry as tinder by now.”

A pyre four feet high was raised, the strips being laid from north to south and east to west alternately, and they dried their blankets and warmed their smoking bodies.

“George, I have got two cigars; they must last us two days.”

“Oh, I’m no great smoker—­keep them for your own comfort.”

Robinson wore a sad smile.

“We can’t afford to smoke them; this is to chew; it is not food, George, but it keeps the stomach from eating itself.  We must do the best for our lives we can for Susan’s sake.”

“Give it me, Tom; I’ll chew it, and thank you kindly.  You are a wise companion in adversity, Tom; it is a great grief to me that I have brought you into this trouble, looking for what I know you think is a mare’s nest, as the saying is.”

“Don’t talk so, George.  True pals like you and me never reproach one another.  They stand and fall together like men.  The fire is warm, George—­that is one comfort.”

“The fire is well enough, but there’s nothing down at it.  I’d give a hundred pounds for a mutton chop.”

The friends sat like sacrifices by the fire, and chewed their cigars in silence, with foreboding hearts.  After a while, as the heat laid hold of him, George began to dose.  Robinson felt inclined to do the same, but the sense that perhaps a human enemy might be near caused him to fight against sleep in this exposed locality; so, whenever his head bobbed down, he lifted it sharply and forced his eyes open.  It was on one of these occasions that, looking up, he saw, set as it were in a frame of leaves, a hideous countenance glaring at him; it was painted in circular lines, red, blue and white.

“Get up, George,” roared Robinson; “they are upon us!”

And both men were on their feet, revolvers pointed.  The leaves parted, and out came this diabolical face which they had never seen before, but with it a figure they seemed to know, and a harsh cackle they instantly recognized, and it sounded like music to them.