man?" asked Mooney, stretching out his hand in the
direction of the voice. "You're not going to shirk?" The other avoided
the touch, and shrank away, still staring. "You ain't going to back out
after you swored it, Dawes? You're not that sort. Dawes, speak, man!"

"Is Bland willing?" asked Dawes, looking round, as if to seek some
method of escape from the glare of those unspeculative eyes.

"Ay, and ready. They flogged him again yesterday."

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dawes, at length.

"No; let's have it over," urged the old man, with a strange eagerness.
"I'm tired o' this."

Rufus Dawes cast a wistful glance towards the wall behind which lay the
house of the Commandant. "Leave it till to-morrow," he repeated, with
his hand still in his breast.

They had been so occupied in their conversation that neither had
observed the approach of their common enemy. "What are you hiding
there?" cried Frere, seizing Dawes by the wrist. "More tobacco, you
dog?" The hand of the convict, thus suddenly plucked from his bosom,
opened involuntarily, and a withered rose fell to the earth. Frere at
once, indignant and astonished, picked it up. "Hallo! What the devil's
this? You've not been robbing my garden for a nosegay, Jack?" The
Commandant was wont to call all convicts "Jack" in his moments of
facetiousness. It was a little humorous way he had.

Rufus Dawes uttered one dismal cry, and then stood trembling and cowed.
His companions, hearing the exclamation of rage and grief that burst
from him, looked to see him snatch back the flower or perform some act
of violence. Perhaps such was his intention, but he did not execute
it. One would have thought that there was some charm about this rose so
strangely cherished, for he stood gazing at it, as it twirled between
Captain Frere's strong fingers, as though it fascinated him. "You're a
pretty man to want a rose for your buttonhole! Are you going out with
your sweetheart next Sunday, Mr. Dawes?" The gang laughed. "How did you
get this?" Dawes was silent. "You'd better tell me." No answer. "Troke,
let us see if we can't find Mr. Dawes's tongue. Pull off your shirt, my
man. I expect that's the way to your heart--eh, boys?"

At this elegant allusion to the lash, the gang laughed again, and looked
at each other astonished. It seemed possible that the leader of the
"Ring" was going to turn milksop. Such, indeed, appeared to be the
case, for Dawes, trembling and pale, cried, "Don't flo