of grey cloth--the
"good-conduct" uniform. Beneath this was a piece, some three inches
square, of stained and discoloured merino, that had once been blue.

"Hullo!" says Frere. "Why, what's this?"

"It is a piece of a dress," says Sylvia.

It was Rufus Dawes's talisman--a portion of the frock she had worn at
Macquarie Harbour, and which the unhappy convict had cherished as a
sacred relic for five weary years.

Frere flung it into the water. The running stream whirled it away. "Why
did you do that?" cried the girl, with a sudden pang of remorse for
which she could not account. The shred of cloth, caught by a weed,
lingered for an instant on the surface of the water. Almost at the same
moment, the pair, raising their eyes, saw the schooner which bore Rufus
Dawes back to bondage glide past the opening of the trees and disappear.
When they looked again for the strange relic of the desperado of Port
Arthur, it also had vanished.

CHAPTER XII. AT PORT ARTHUR.

The usual clanking and hammering was prevalent upon the stone jetty of
Port Arthur when the schooner bearing the returned convict, Rufus Dawes,
ran alongside. On the heights above the esplanade rose the grim front
of the soldiers' barracks; beneath the soldiers' barracks was the long
range of prison buildings with their workshops and tan-pits; to the left
lay the Commandant's house, authoritative by reason of its embrasured
terrace and guardian sentry; while the jetty, that faced the purple
length of the "Island of the Dead," swarmed with parti-coloured figures,
clanking about their enforced business, under the muskets of their
gaolers.

Rufus Dawes had seen this prospect before, had learnt by heart each
beauty of rising sun, sparkling water, and wooded hill. From the
hideously clean jetty at his feet, to the distant signal station, that,
embowered in bloom, reared its slender arms upwards into the cloudless
sky, he knew it all. There was no charm for him in the exquisite blue
of the sea, the soft shadows of the hills, or the soothing ripple of the
waves that crept voluptuously to the white breast of the shining shore.
He sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped about his knees,
disdaining to look until they roused him.

"Hallo, Dawes!" says Warder Troke, halting his train of ironed
yellow-jackets. "So you've come back again! Glad to see yer, Dawes! It
seems an age since we had the pleasure of your company, Dawes!" At this
pleasantry the t