band of my own, and have pillaged and murdered to my
heart's content."

The robber ceased speaking, and a spasm passed through his frame, that I
thought would result fatally; but a drink of wine restored him, and he
again spoke, but in a voice not above a whisper.

"I have a commission which I wish you to take care of," the bushranger
said, scanning my face to see what effect his words would have upon me;
"can I trust you to take charge of it?"

I promised faithfully to fulfil his wishes, no matter what he required
of me.

"This cross," he said, touching it to his lips, and uttering a sigh as
he did so, that came from the heart, "I promised to send to Julia, only
when death overpowered me. Will you take it to her, and say that the
wearer has gone to another world, where treachery and crime do not
exist, and where I hope to meet her and her father, and then disprove
the unjust accusation that was brought against me?"

I promised to obey his wishes, and a look of gratitude stole over his
dark face.

"My name," he whispered, "is engraved upon the jewel: do not give it to
the world, but know me as Jim Gulpin, the robber. I do not wish to
disgrace my father's name, even if I have been unjustly accused by him."

I also promised compliance with this request, and asked if there was any
other matter which he wished to confide to me.

"You know where the hut of Darnley stood in the black woods which you
visited?" the robber whispered, with a painful effort.

I replied in the affirmative.

"Near the hut I buried all my ill-gotten gains, and there they remain
yet; to you I bequeath them, to do as you see fit. There are thousands
of pounds' worth of gold dust there, besides jewels of value. After
searching the hut, walk in a south--"

The robber's voice failed him; he made painful efforts to recover his
breath, and during the struggle his eyes rolled fearfully in their
sockets, and his hands clutched the earth convulsively. I feared that he
would die without revealing the hiding-place of his hoard, and impressed
with this idea, I dashed a pot of cold water in his face, and poured
more wine down his throat.

"Thanks," he gasped, "I'm--going--farewell--ten paces--in a south--"

There was a gurgle in the bushranger's throat, a convulsive movement of
his limbs, and then all was quiet, and the spirit of the outlaw chief
had taken flight to a better world.

CHAPTER XVI.

A FORCED MARCH TOWARDS MELBOURNE.

I r