anger looked over his shoulder with a bitter smile. "You've
done me, after all!" said he, and stretched out empty hands.

"It was done before I saw you," the Bishop made answer. "I had already
sent for the police."

One had entered excitedly by an inner door.

"And he didn't do you at all!" cried the voice of high hysteria. "It
was I who saw you--it was I who guessed who it was! Oh, father, why have
you been talking so long to such a dreadful man? I made sure he would
shoot you, and you'd still be shot if they had to shoot him!
Move--move--move!"

Stingaree looked at the strong-minded girl, shrill with her triumph,
quite carried away by her excitement, all undaunted by the prospect of
bloodshed before her eyes. And it was he who moved, with but a shrug of
the shoulders, and gave himself up without another sign.

The Moth and the Star

I

Darlinghurst Jail had never immured a more interesting prisoner than the
back-block bandit who was tried and convicted under the strange style
and title which he had made his own. Not even in prison was his real
name ever known, and the wild speculations of some imaginative officials
were nothing else up to the end. There was enough color in their
wildness, however, to crown the convict with a certain halo of romance,
which his behavior in jail did nothing to dispel. That, of course, was
exemplary, since Stingaree had never been a fool; but it was something
more and rarer. Not content simply to follow the line of least
resistance, he exhibited from the first a spirit and a philosophy unique
indeed beneath the broad arrow. And so far from decreasing with the
years of his captivity, these attractive qualities won him friend after
friend among the officials, and privilege upon privilege at their hands,
while amply justifying the romantic interest in his case.

At last there came to Sydney a person more capable of an acute
appreciation of the heroic villain than his most ardent admirer on the
spot. Lucius Brady was a long-haired Irishman of letters, bard and
bookworm, rebel and reviewer; in his ample leisure he was also the most
enthusiastic criminologist in London. And as President of an exceedingly
esoteric Society for the Cultivation of Criminals, even from London did
he come for a prearranged series of interviews with the last and the
most distinguished of all the bushrangers.

It was to Lucius Brady, his biographer to be, that Stingaree confided
the data of all the m