laced the weapon on the ground. Then he came back, and,
sitting on a rock in front of the convict, he leant his chin on his hand
and looked him in the face.

"I'll tell you what I will do," he said quietly, "I shall take you to
a place on the top of this bluff, make you a damper and a billy of tea,
give you my blanket, and stay with you till daylight. Then I shall
ride to Willeroo Station and return early the next morning with more
provisions and some clothing and a razor--your beard is too long. And
perhaps, too, I can get you a horse and saddle. Then, as soon as you are
better, you can travel towards New South Wales. You speak English well,
and New South Wales is the best place for you."

The Frenchman sprang to his feet, his face blanched to a deathly white,
and his limbs trembled.

"Why do you---- who are you? Ah, my God--you know me!"

"Yes, I know you; sit down. You are Kellerman, but I will not betray
you."

"You will not betray me?"

The anguished ring in his voice went to the overseer's heart, and rising
he placed his hand on the convict's arm. "Sit down. I will give you a
proof that I harbour no evil intentions to you." Then he walked away to
where his Winchester lay, picked it up, and returning placed it in the
convict's hands.

"In that rifle there are left twelve cartridges. I have thirty more in
my saddle-pouch. They and the rifle are yours to defend yourself from
the blacks on your way down the coast. If you use it against white men
you will be a murderer."

Kellerman clutched the weapon convulsively for a moment, and his eyes
flashed. Then he thought a moment.

"I promise you that I will not use it against a white man--even to save
myself."

In less than an hour Monk had fixed the wounded man comfortably under
the overhanging ledge of rock, boiled him some tea, and made him a
damper, of which he ate ravenously. His wound troubled him but little,
and as he lay on the overseer's blanket he talked freely of his past
life. His earlier life had been spent in England and America. Then came
the Franco-German war, and from America he had returned to France to
take part in the struggle, and when the dark days of the Commune fell
upon Paris, Kellerman was one of its warmest adherents, and paid the
penalty with worse than death--he was sentenced to transportation for
life. His only relatives were a brother and a sister, both of whom were
little more than children when he was transported.

Monk listen