back boldly and defiantly, and saw his eyes drop baffled; but his strange superhuman look had affected me more than I was then aware of.
“I was feeling for your matches, mine are all used; I am sorry that I disturbed you,” he said.
I handed him my match-box without a word, and he went back to his blankets and lit his pipe. After a short time I again fell asleep, first feeling for the dead man’s diary, as I felt certain that that was the object of Hawthorne’s search; it was there where I had placed it. Once more was I disturbed; Davy shook me by the shoulder, and called me by name. I raised myself and looked around. The cold breath of the coming dawn was making itself felt; the moon sinking low in the west gave but a dim half light, and threw long shadows of the I stunted trees upon the white sandy soil around us; a few tall gum trees on the bank of the creek standing out white and spectral like. Davy was standing beside my bed, evidently greatly excited. “What do you think,” he said in a frightened whisper; “Hawthorne has gone away with the dead man!”
I stared at him in astonishment. “I saw him, saw him go, and as I live, the dead man rode with him.”
My courage has been put to the test in many lands, and I do not think I have been found wanting; but I must confess that when this weird communication was whispered into my ear in the ghastly failing moonlight, in the desert far from our fellow men, I felt a thrill of abject fear run through me. I laid my hand upon my companion’s shoulder, and at the human contact the cowardly superstitious feeling that I had weakly given way to left me.
“What can you mean? How could he take a dead man with him?” I asked.
“I tell you that I saw them go. Listen! Can you hear anything?” We both listened, holding our breath, but the dead silence was unbroken; not even the scream of a curlew or the howl of a native dog could be heard.
“No,” said Davy, “they are out of hearing now. A short time ago I awoke and thought that I heard the horses galloping about in their hobbles away down the creek. I put on my boots, and taking my revolver, went down to see what was up, as I thought the blacks might be knocking about. When I got near where the horses were I heard a strange noise, and was on the point of turning back to call you, but changed my mind, and went a little closer, sneaking along under cover as much as possible. I saw two men amongst the horses, catching and saddling some of them, saw them mount and come straight towards where I was hidden. I had my revolver ready to fire, when I saw that it was Hawthorne and—” He pointed towards the grave.
“The man could not have been dead.”
“What time is it?” said Davy, in reply. I looked round; the dawn in the east was growing bright and clear.
“Half-past four or so,” I said, and stooped for my watch.
“And what time was it when we buried the man?” my companion went on.
“About six o’clock.”
“Say then that he was in a trance when we buried him, would not the weight of earth have killed him? Would he not have been suffocated in less than an hour?
I could only answer, “Yes.” “But,” I was going on to say, “could not Hawthorne have dug him up directly we went to sleep;” and then I remembered that I had seen Hawthorne in the camp in the middle of the night.
I looked for the book, and found it still under my pillow. I told Davy of the occurrence; he was on his knees, busy making up the fire; the bright cherry blaze seemed partly to scare away the dismal horrors that lingered round the haunted camp.
All Hawthorne’s things were gone; he and his unearthly companion must have carried them down to the horses. We both shuddered at the thought of the living corpse moving about the silent tamp, and stepping perhaps over our sleeping bodies. Our horses were all there, Hawthorne’s four and the two strangers being away.
“Shall we track them up?” I asked, when we were ready to start.
“No, no!” said Davy. “Let us get away from here. I don’t feel myself; I feel quite nervous and cowed.”
So we started, first inspecting the grave, which we found empty. We pushed on during the ensuing few days; and in my spare hours I managed to make out the blurred manuscript. The history revealed by it coincided so strangely with the scene that we had witnessed, that we could doubt the evidence of our senses no longer. It was so unheard of and incredible, and it brought back all the horrors of that night so forcibly and vividly, that our only wish was to reach a settlement of fellow beings, in hope that our minds would cease to dwell and brood upon what we had seen.
In a little more than a fortnight we reached the overland telegraph line, and following it along, we came to a working party; and then Davy fell sick and could not travel. He rapidly grew worse; everybody was most kind, but we could do but little. I could see the end not very far off.
I was watching by his side one evening, when he turned and spoke to me.
“I have told you all that I want you to do for me, excepting one thing, old fellow, and that is that when I die that you will watch over my grave for at least a week; promise that you will save me from that horrible fiend; make sure of it before you leave me.”
I pressed his hand, and told him, “Yes.”
“Good-bye, old friend; it’s hard to die like this, but I feel easier since your promise.”
That night he died, and I was left alone, the sole possessor of the horrible secret. I dared not tell the others, for they would only have laughed at me; but I determined not to break my word to the dead.
We buried him the next morning near the line; all hands knocked off work, and attended; and then my watch commenced.
They thought me mad thus to carry out a whim of my dead comrade’s; and had they known against what I sought to guard his body, they would have been sure of my insanity; but I did not tell then. With snatches of broken rest during the day time, I kept my promise for more than a week, until all semblance of life must have departed from the body underground; and then, when my time expired and I could relinquish my armed watch (for man or ghoul, living being or ghost, I had determined that he should not make an attempt unscathed), I left poor Davy in his lonely grave, with the silent messages that had travelled so many thousand miles flashing past his resting place, and hastened to port. I went to Melbourne to recruit, and for a while forgot to a certain extent my hideous experience; until, after three years, I found myself here in Brisbane, and the other day it was all brought home to me again.
My resolution is taken—I will keep the story secret no longer. In a few days, if I live, I shall leave the colony, and if the body of that poor wretch found no peace in the wilderness, perhaps the depths of the sea will be more kind to me, when my time comes.
GEORGE SEAMORE’S MANUSCRIPT
I stayed about a week longer in London; and then, at the repeated request of my parents, hastened down to spend Christmas with them in Devonshire. I left fully persuaded that Fanny Berrimore was beginning to love me, as well as I loved her; and my visits had been as frequent as I could consistently make them. Christmas seemed to me but a weary time; and my absent manner was a great source of wonderment to my friends, to whom of course I had not confided any of my late adventures.
I told Fanny that I could not possibly return under a month; but after about a three week’s stay at home I was troubled with a strange dream, in which Hawthorne bore a prominent part. My mind, only too ready to receive an idea that would
