stood stock-still, and the butt of his hidden weapon turned
colder than ever in his melting hand.

"Why, what have you got there?" cried Stingaree. "And what's the matter
with you, man?" he added, as Vanheimert stood shaking in his socks.

"Only his blankets, to camp on," the fellow answered, hoarsely. "You
advised me to help myself, you know."

"Quite right; so I did; but you're as white as the tent--you tremble
like a leaf. What's wrong?"

"My head," replied Vanheimert, in a whine. "It's going round and round,
either from what I had in the night, or lying too long in the hot tent,
or one on top of the other. I thought I'd camp for a bit in the shade."

"I should," said Stingaree, and buried himself in his paper with
undisguised contempt.

Vanheimert came a step nearer. Stingaree did not look up again. The
revolver was levelled under one trailing blanket. But the trigger was
never pulled. Vanheimert feared to miss even at arm's length, so palsied
was his hand, so dim his eye; and when he would have played the man and
called desperately on the other to surrender, the very tongue clove in
his head.

He slunk over to the shady margin of surrounding scrub and lay aloof all
the morning, now fingering the weapon in his pocket, now watching the
man who never once looked his way. He was a bushranger and an outlaw; he
deserved to die or to be taken; and Vanheimert's only regret was that he
had neither taken nor shot him at their last interview. The bloodless
alternative was to be borne in mind, yet in his heart he well knew that
the bullet was his one chance with Stingaree. And even with the bullet
he was horribly uncertain and afraid. But of hesitation on any higher
ground, of remorse or of reluctance, or the desire to give fair play, he
had none at all. The man whom he had stupidly spared so far was a
notorious criminal with a high price upon his head. It weighed not a
grain with Vanheimert that the criminal happened to have saved his life.

"Come and eat," shouted Stingaree at last; and Vanheimert trailed the
blankets over his left arm, his right thrust idly into his pocket, which
bulged with a red bandanna handkerchief. "Sorry it's sardines again,"
the bushranger went on, "but we shall make up with a square feed
to-night if my mate gets back by dark; if he doesn't, we may have to
tighten our belts till morning. Fortunately, there's plenty to drink.
Have some whiskey in your tea?"

Vanheimert nodded, and with an ey