f the men that fired on the police. I
didn't hear a great deal of it, but 'livened up when the judge put on
his black cap and made a speech, not a very long one, telling about
the way the law was set at naught by men who had dared to infest the
highways of the land and rob peaceful citizens with arms and violence.
In the pursuit of gain by such atrocious means, blood had been shed, and
murder, wilful murder, had been committed. He would not further allude
to the deeds of blood with which the prisoner at the bar stood charged.
The only redeeming feature in his career had been brought out by the
evidence tendered in his favour by the learned counsel who defended him.
He had fought fairly when opposed by the police force, and he had
on more than one occasion acted in concert with the robber known as
Starlight, and the brother James Marston, both of whom had fallen in a
recent encounter, to protect from violence women who were helpless
and in the power of his evil companions. Then the judge pronounced the
sentence that I, Richard Marston, was to be taken from the place whence
I came, and there hanged by the neck until I was dead. 'And might God
have mercy upon my soul!'

My lawyer had beforehand argued that although I had been seen in the
company of persons who had doubtless compassed the unlawfully slaying
of the Queen's lieges and peace officers, yet no proof had been brought
before the court that day that I had wilfully killed any one. 'He was
not aware,' would his Honour remark, 'that any one had seen me fire at
any man, whether since dead or alive. He would freely admit that. I had
been seen in bad company, but that fact would not suffice to hang a man
under British rule. It was therefore incumbent on the jury to bring in a
verdict for his client of "not guilty".'

But that cock wouldn't fight. I was found guilty by the jury and
sentenced to death by the judge. I expect I was taken back without
seeing or hearing to the gaol, and I found myself alone in the condemned
cell, with heavy leg-irons--worn for the first time in my life. The
rough and tumble of a bush-ranger's life was over at last, and this was
the finish up.

For the first week or two I didn't feel anything particular. I was
hardly awake. Sometimes I thought I must be dreaming--that this man,
sitting in a cell, quiet and dull-looking, with heavy irons on his
limbs, could never be Dick Marston, the shearer, the stock-rider, the
gold-miner, the bush-ranger.