ed his deadliest foe to capture him. Such monstrous
ingratitude was almost beyond belief. She, too,--the child he had nursed
and fed, the child for whom he had given up his hard-earned chance of
freedom and fortune, the child of whom he had dreamed, the child whose
image he had worshipped--she, too, against him! Then there was no
justice, no Heaven, no God! He loosed his hold of her dress, and,
regardless of the approaching footsteps, stood speechless, shaking from
head to foot. In another instant Frere and McNab flung themselves upon
him, and he was borne to the ground. Though weakened by starvation, he
shook them off with scarce an effort, and, despite the servants who came
hurrying from the alarmed house, might even then have turned and
made good his escape. But he seemed unable to fly. His chest heaved
convulsively, great drops of sweat beaded his white face, and from his
eyes tears seemed about to break. For an instant his features worked
convulsively, as if he would fain invoke upon the girl, weeping on her
father's shoulder, some hideous curse. But no words came--only thrusting
his hand into his breast, with a supreme gesture of horror and aversion,
he flung something from him. Then a profound sigh escaped him, and he
held out his hands to be bound.

There was something so pitiable about this silent grief that, as they
led him away, the little group instinctively averted their faces, lest
they should seem to triumph over him.

CHAPTER XI. A RELIC OF MACQUARIE HARBOUR.

"You must try and save him from further punishment," said Sylvia next
day to Frere. "I did not mean to betray the poor creature, but I had
made myself nervous by reading that convict's story."

"You shouldn't read such rubbish," said Frere. "What's the use? I don't
suppose a word of it's true."

"It must be true. I am sure it's true. Oh, Maurice, these are dreadful
men. I thought I knew all about convicts, but I had no idea that such
men as these were among them."

"Thank God, you know very little," said Maurice. "The servants you have
here are very different sort of fellows from Rex and Company."

"Oh, Maurice, I am so tired of this place. It's wrong, perhaps, with
poor papa and all, but I do wish I was somewhere out of the sight of
chains. I don't know what has made me feel as I do."

"Come to Sydney," said Frere. "There are not so many convicts there. It
was arranged that we should go to Sydney, you know."

"For our honeymoon