n suddenly turned, while talking, and with one of his
heavy boots kicked the hound upon his head; but the noble brute did not
even utter a whimper, although the blow brought blood upon his glossy
coat. But dearly did the fellow pay for his cruelty, for, as he dashed
towards the door, for the purpose of escaping, Rover sprang upon him,
seized him by his neck, and bore him headlong to the floor, where he
held him, despite of his struggles and cries.

We let them fight it out without interference, but a few minutes were
sufficient to produce cries for quarter from Follet, although before we
listened to them we disarmed him of his knife and remaining pistol.

"Get up," I said, addressing the prostrate man, "and remember that acts
of cruelty sometimes bring immediate punishment."

He arose, sullen and angry, yet not daring to manifest it by deeds and
words. I motioned him to a place near the stove, where Mr. Critchet was
seated, and from whence he had witnessed all that had transpired,
without remark or interference.

"Why am I treated in this manner?" demanded Follet, hesitating, before
he complied with my request.

"Because we think that it is necessary for you to make reparation for
wrongs that you have committed during a lifetime."

"Who accuses me?" he asked, after a pause.

"I do!" said Mr. Critchet.

"I never saw you before in the whole course of my existence!" cried the
forger, with a degree of effrontery that was characteristic of the man.

"Do you deny that you married my sister, and that I lent you money,
besides taking up your forged paper to save your neck from the common
hangman? demanded Critchet, earnestly.

"I do," replied the prisoner, without a moment's hesitancy; "and I will
also add, that if you think that I am to be robbed with impunity, you
are mistaken. What money I have about me I shall hold on to; and when I
do gain my liberty look to yourselves, for there is law to be obtained
in Ballarat."

We consulted apart with Mr. Critchet, and found that he was positive
that the man who had wronged him so basely was in our power, and we had
too great confidence in the judgment of the old gentleman to believe
that he would tell a lie, or endeavor to deceive us in the premises.

"How old was young Follet when his father left London?" Fred asked of
Mr. Critchet.

"About sixteen," was the answer.

"Then we can settle this matter in the morning, without trouble, or
further debate."

"How?"

"B