allow.

They knew one another; and, as soon as Hawker saw that he was
recognised, he made to the left, away from the rest of his gang, trying
to reach, as Desborough could plainly see, the only practicable way
that led from the amphitheatre in which they were back into the
mountains.

They fired at one another without effect at the first. Hawker was now
pushing in full flight, though the scrub was so dense that neither made
much way. Now the ground got more open and easier travelled, when
Desborough was aware of one who came charging recklessly up alongside
of him, and, looking round, he recognised Charles Hawker.

"Good lad," he said; "come on. I must have that fellow before us there.
He is the arch-devil of the lot. If we follow him to h-ll, we must have
him!"

"We'll have him, safe enough!" said Charles. "Push to the left,
Captain, and we shall get him against those fallen rocks."

Desborough saw the excellence of this advice. This was the last piece
of broken ground there was. On the right the cliff rose precipitous,
and from its side had tumbled a confused heap of broken rock, running
out into the glen. Once past this, the man they were pursuing would
have the advantage, for he was splendidly mounted, and beyond was clear
galloping ground. As it was, he was in a recess, and Desborough and
Charles, pushing forward, succeeded in bringing him to bay. Alas, too
well!

George Hawker reined up his horse when he saw escape was impossible,
and awaited their coming with a double-barrelled pistol in his hand. As
the other two came on, calling on him to surrender, Desborough's horse
received a bullet in his chest, and down went horse and man together.
But Charles pushed on till he was within twenty yards of the
bushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.

So met father and son the second time in their lives, all
unconsciously. For an instant they glared on one another with wild
threatening eyes, as the father made his aim more certain and deadly.
Was there no lightning in heaven to strike him dead, and save him from
this last horrid crime? Was there no warning voice to tell him that
this was his son?

None. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his saddle,
clutching wildly, with crooked, convulsive fingers at the grass and
flowers--shot through the the chest!

Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen horse,
George Hawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls into
the p