Rufus Dawes had been a fortnight at the settlement when a new-comer appeared on the chain-gang. This was a young man of about twenty years of age, thin, fair, and delicate. His name was Kirkland, and he belonged to what were known as the “educated” prisoners. He had been a clerk in a banking house, and was transported for embezzlement, though, by some, grave doubts as to his guilt were entertained. The Commandant, Captain Burgess, had employed him as butler in his own house, and his fate was considered a “lucky” one. So, doubtless, it was, and might have been, had not an untoward accident occurred. Captain Burgess, who was a bachelor of the “old school”, confessed to an amiable weakness for blasphemy, and was given to condemning the convicts’ eyes and limbs with indiscriminate violence. Kirkland belonged to a Methodist family and owned a piety utterly out of place in that region. The language of Burgess made him shudder, and one day he so far forgot himself and his place as to raise his hands to his ears. “My blank!” cried Burgess. “You blank blank, is that your blank game? I’ll blank soon cure you of that!” and forthwith ordered him to the chain-gang for “insubordination”.

He was received with suspicion by the gang, who did not like white-handed prisoners. Troke, by way of experiment in human nature, perhaps, placed him next to Gabbett. The day was got through in the usual way, and Kirkland felt his heart revive.

The toil was severe, and the companionship uncouth, but despite his blistered hands and aching back, he had not experienced anything so very terrible after all. When the muster bell rang, and the gang broke up, Rufus Dawes, on his silent way to his separate cell, observed a notable change of custom in the disposition of the new convict. Instead of placing him in a cell by himself, Troke was turning him into the yard with the others.

“I’m not to go in there?” says the ex-bank clerk, drawing back in dismay from the cloud of foul faces which lowered upon him.

“By the Lord, but you are, then!” says Troke. “The Governor says a night in there’ll take the starch out of ye. Come, in yer go.”

“But, Mr. Troke —”

“Stow your gaff,” says Troke, with another oath, and impatiently striking the lad with his thong —“I can’t argue here all night. Get in.” So Kirkland, aged twenty-two, and the son of Methodist parents, went in.

Rufus Dawes, among whose sinister memories this yard was numbered, sighed. So fierce was the glamour of the place, however, that when locked into his cell, he felt ashamed for that sigh, and strove to erase the memory of it. “What is he more than anybody else?” said the wretched man to himself, as he hugged his misery close.

About dawn the next morning, Mr. North — who, amongst other vagaries not approved of by his bishop, had a habit of prowling about the prison at unofficial hours — was attracted by a dispute at the door of the dormitory.

“What’s the matter here?” he asked.

“A prisoner refractory, your reverence,” said the watchman. “Wants to come out.”

“Mr. North! Mr. North!” cried a voice, “for the love of God, let me out of this place!”

Kirkland, ghastly pale, bleeding, with his woollen shirt torn, and his blue eyes wide open with terror, was clinging to the bars.

“Oh, Mr. North! Mr. North! Oh, Mr. North! Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. North!”

“What, Kirkland!” cried North, who was ignorant of the vengeance of the Commandant. “What do you do here?”

But Kirkland could do nothing but cry,—“Oh, Mr. North! For God’s sake, Mr. North!” and beat on the bars with white and sweating hands.

“Let him out, watchman!” said North.

“Can’t sir, without an order from the Commandant.”

“I order you, sir!” North cried, indignant.

“Very sorry, your reverence; but your reverence knows that I daren’t do such a thing.” “Mr. North!” screamed Kirkland. “Would you see me perish, body and soul, in this place? Mr. North! Oh, you ministers of Christ — wolves in sheep’s clothing — you shall be judged for this!”

“Let him out!” cried North again, stamping his foot.

“It’s no good,” returned the gaoler. “I can’t. If he was dying, I can’t.”

North rushed away to the Commandant, and the instant his back was turned, Hailes, the watchman, flung open the door, and darted into the dormitory.

“Take that!” he cried, dealing Kirkland a blow on the head with his keys, that stretched him senseless. “There’s more trouble with you bloody aristocrats than enough. Lie quiet!”

The Commandant, roused from slumber, told Mr. North that Kirkland might stop where he was, and that he’d thank the chaplain not to wake him up in the middle of the night because a blank prisoner set up a blank howling.

“But, my good sir,” protested North, restraining his impulse to overstep the bounds of modesty in his language to his superior officer, &ldq............