the stark, desolate ranges, and I am standing
in the doorway of a peaceful Mission House on a fair island in the far
South Seas--standing with a string of fish in my hand, and before me
dear old Pere Grandseigne with his flowing beard of snowy white and
his kindly blue eyes smiling into mine as he extends his brown sun-burnt
hand.

"Ah, my dear young friend! and so thou hast brought me these
fish--_ombres chevaliers_, we call them in France. Are they not
beautiful! What do you call them in England?"

"I have never been in England, Father; so I cannot tell you. And never
before have I seen fish like these. They are new to me."

"Ah, indeed, my son," and the old Marist smiles as he motions me to a
seat, "new to you. So?... Here, on this island, my sainted colleague
Channel, who gave up his life for Christ forty years ago under the
clubs of the savages, fished, as thou hast fished in that same mountain
stream; and his blood has sanctified its waters. For upon its bank, as
he cast his line one eve he was slain by the poor savages to whom he
had come bearing the love of Christ and salvation. After we have supped
to-night, I shall tell thee the story."

And after the Angelus bells had called, and as the cocos swayed and
rustled to the night breeze and the surf beat upon the reef in Singavi
Bay, we sat together on the verandah of the quiet Mission House on
the hill above, which the martyred Channel had named "Calvary," and I
listened to the old man's story of his beloved comrade's death.

As Longmuir and I lay on our blankets under the starlit sky of the far
north of Queensland that night, and the horse-bells tinkled and our
mates slept, we talked.

"Aye, lad," he said, sleepily, "the auld _padre_ gave them the Breton
name--_ombre chevalier_. In Scotland and England--if ever ye hae the
good luck to go there--ye will hear talk of graylin'. Aye, the bonny
graylin'... an' the purple heather... an' the cry o' the whaups.... Lad,
ye hae much to see an' hear yet, for all the cruising ye hae done....
Aye, the graylin', an' the white mantle o' the mountain mist... an' the
voices o' the night... Lad, it's just gran'."

Sleep, and then again the tinkle of the horse-bells at dawn.

CHAPTER XVIII ~ A RECLUSE OF THE BUSH

The bank of the tidal river was very, very quiet as I walked down to it
through the tall spear grass and sat down upon the smooth, weather-worn
bole of a great blackbutt tree, cast up by the river when in