“Thou hast said well; for some of you there present, Are worse than devils.”
The Tempest.
 T
AKING advantage of the storm whose parting fusillade has left Claude hors de combat for the time being, Manager Browne’s “rounding-up” party, under the skilful generalship of Inspector Puttis and Sub-Inspector Morth, has completely invested the native village upon the rocky promontory.
 
It is made up of strange constituents, this murderous shooting party. Squatter J.P.’s are there; youthful “rouse-abouts,” some of these youngsters only a few years released from the sanctified thraldom of a Christian home in the old country; reckless, godless 373 stockmen; a colonial legislator, who has made a name by howling for separation from England; and numerous blacks, oiled, naked, and anxious for their work to begin.
 
There, in the darkness, around the unconscious villagers, amongst wet, dripping rocks and slimy brushwood, crouches a bloodthirsty circle of Native Constables, naked, save for a cartridge-belt and a red band round the head, and armed with Snider carbines and tomahawks; and with them are a number of no less sanguinary white men.
 
Regardless of the majestic fury of the roaring elements overhead, of the heavy, drenching rain, of dangerous snakes and poisonous thorns, and with the fierce, sweet love of slaughter warming each individual’s heart with its terrible excitement, the cruel cordon has shrunk its wreath of death nearer and nearer around its slumbering prey; and now some thirty pair of eyes are watching the small glimmer of the black camp-fire, and thirty fingers itch to pull the smooth, cold triggers against which they rest.
 
On all sides is the noisy dropping of water from the leaves, and occasionally a dead bough, sodden with moisture, and thus suddenly grown heavy, breaks from its parent tree, and crashes through the underwoood with startling echoes.
 
But it is not our purpose to describe the sickening scene of murder and rapine that follows, when towards four o’clock Inspector Puttis gives the revolver shot signal to commence the holocaust. We have already rendered to our readers a faithful account of a similar occurrence in an earlier chapter. To those gentlemen who, taking a special interest in such kinds of sport, 374 have honoured our pages by perusing the same, we will respectfully point out that they can obtain their fill of it by making their way to up-country Australia. Partly for the benefit of such “sports,” and partly for another class of reader, our publishers have deemed the late Dr. Dyesart’s map of the “Wicked Island” worthy of reproduction with this our narrative of his nephew’s adventures.
 
So, instead of “potting” a few “buck” niggers, or tomahawking a woman or child, or otherwise assisting the police (Queensland Native Mounted) in the execution of their duty, let us follow Mr. Wilson Giles and watch his movements and actions, which more nearly affect our story.
 
It having been reported to Mr. Morth that a party of runaway “boys” are encamped a few miles from where he is assisting his senior officer in the development of his plan of attack, the sub-inspector, taking a few native troopers with him, starts off to investigate matters in this new direction, being accompanied by Mr. Giles and a few other gentlemen.
 
After a dark ride of an hour the party reach the cliffs which Claude Angland has descended only a few hours before, and, leaving their horses with a couple of station-hands, creep silently through the shadows after their black guide.
 
Presently each man feels, rather than hears, the whispered order to halt, and Mr. Morth glides forward like a snake to reconnoitre.
 
As ill-luck would have it, at the time when the police officer raises his keen eyes above the edge of a sheltering rock that commands a view of the camp, the only members of Angland’s party in sight are 375 General Gordon and the Myall black, whose friends, a short distance off in the village, are in like imminent peril to themselves. Both are naked; for having discovered Claude’s absence, and guessing something of what has happened, they are about to set forth in search of him. Don and Joe lie in the deep shadow of the rock and are invisible; neither does the feeble illumination afforded by the wood embers reach the blankets, pack-bags, and other civilized impedimenta, and warn the scout that what he takes for a warragal camp is at present occupied by the “boys” and belongings of a white man.
 
On the other hand, Morth recognizes Gordon, as he stoops over the fire for an instant to light his pipe, as a runaway from Murdaro Station. So crawling backwards to his waiting friends and troopers, he commences to arrange them quietly round his intended prey.
 
The early morning sky is now clear and star-studded, and in another hour or two another day will have begun.
 
The men creep forward amongst spiny grass trees, rocks, and tree-stems, but are not yet in position, when, above the roar of the creek hard by and multitudinous noises of a water-laden scrub,&mda............