resence of the broad bald snow-line that rolled above his head in
endless lofty tiers towards the sky.

Desborough arose, swearing and stamping; but, ere he could pick up his
cap, Sam was alongside of him, breathless, and with him another
common-looking man--my man, Dick, no other--and they both cried out
together, "What has happened?"

"Look there!" said Desborough, pointing to something dark among the
grass,--"that's what has happened. What lies there was Charles Hawker,
and the villain is off."

"Who shot Charles Hawker?" said Dick.

"His namesake," said Desborough.

"His own father!" said Dick; "that's terrible."

"What do you mean?" they both asked, aghast.

"Never mind now," he answered. "Captain Desborough, what are you going
to do? Do you know where he's gone?"

"Up into the mountain, to lie by, I suppose," said Desborough.

"Not at all, sir! He is going to cross the snow, and get to the old
hut, near the Murray Gate."

"What! Merryman's hut?" said the Captain. "Impossible! He could not get
through that way."

"I tell you he can. That is where they came from at first; that is
where they went to when they landed; and this is the gully they came
through."

"Are you deceiving me?" said Desborough. "It will be worse for you if
you are! I ain't in a humour for that sort of thing. Who are you?"

"I am Mr. Hamlyn's groom--Dick. Strike me dead if I ain't telling the
truth!"

"Do you know this man, Buckley?" said Desborough, calling out to Sam,
who was sitting beside poor Charles Hawker, holding his head up.

"Know him! of course I do," he replied; "ever since I was a child."

"Then, look here," said Desborough to Dick; "I shall trust you. Now,
you say he will cross the snow. If I were to go round by the Parson's I
shouldn't get much snow."

"That's just it, don't you see? You can be round at the huts before
him. That's what I mean," said Dick. "Take Mr. Buckley's horse, and
ride him till he drops, and you'll get another at the Parson's. If you
have any snow, it will be on Broadsaddle; but it won't signify. You go
round the low side of Tambo, and sight the lake, and you'll be there
before him."

"How far?"

"Sixty miles, or thereabouts, plain sailing. It ain't eleven o'clock
yet."

"Good; I'll remember you for this. Buckley, I want your horse. Is the
lad dead?"

"No; but he is very bad. I'll try to get him home. Take the horse; he
is not so good a one as Widderin, but he'll carry you to the P