in the dark, for it only meant keeping in the water and wading. He
must go right.

A hundred yards onward through the wilderness of rocks, trees, and
scrub; and he stopped short again, grasping his gun nervously, for he
fancied he had heard the crack as of a trampled-on piece of dead wood.

But there was no sound now save the hum of insects. The birds were
silent in that torrid midday.

"Fancy!" thought Nic, as he crept on again, stooping low and keeping a
watchful eye in every direction, till once more a chill of apprehension
ran through him, for there was a crackling, rustling noise.

He knew what it was: a twig bent back had sprung to its natural
position; but who had bent back that twig? was it he or some one
following his trail?

He listened, with every nerve on the strain, but there was no sound; and
after crouching low, perfectly still for some minutes, he felt convinced
that it was his own act: the twig had caught a leaf, been held by for a
minute or so, and then released.

"I wish I was not such a coward," thought Nic, as he once more started
off, satisfied now that he was close at hand, for he could just see the
piled-up rocks from beneath which the spring bubbled out.

And now, as more cautiously than ever he crept on, so as to get within
springing distance of the hole, he began to think of the long, deep,
cool drink in which he would indulge--for his throat felt dry, and he
was suffering from a parching, burning thirst.

Closer and closer and closer he crawled, now on hands and knees, with
his gun slung over his back--so near that he had but to spring up and
take a few steps to be there, but holding back so as to preserve the
greatest caution to the very last.

In this way he reached to within five yards of the hole,--stretched out
a hand to press aside a frond of fern, and gave one good look round.

He did so, and held on as if paralysed, feeling as if he were dreaming
of being back on board the _Northumbrian_ on his voyage out, and
watching the convicts having their daily airing.

For there, just in front of him, and one on either side of the hole,
half hidden by clumps of fern, crouched, like a couple of terriers
watching a rat-hole, two of the convicts whom he had forgotten, but
whose features and peculiarities were once more filling his brain.

Yes, there they were; he did not remember their numbers, but their
features were clear enough: those of the pitiful, hang-dog,
pleading-looking