quality at Blue River diggings, and conversation was a thing almost unheard-of. Only, once Mr. Hamilton brought his fist down upon the frail table, and took his pipe from his mouth.
“You chaps, I’m off next week. Gold-diggin’s a frost. D—d if I can stand it any longer. Say, are you coming, Bryan?”
The Englishman shook his head.
“Going to hold on a bit longer,” he answered. “Shouldn’t half mind it if it wasn’t so blazing hot!”
“How about you, Pete?” Mr. Hamilton inquired, turning to the other man.
“I’m in with Bryan,” was the quiet reply. “We’re pards, you know. Ain’t that so, Bryan?”
“Right for you, my man!” was the hearty answer. “Two pairs, aces up! Show your hand, Jim!”
Mr. Hamilton threw down his cards with a string of oaths which even surpassed his usual brilliancy.
“You fellows can stay and rot here,” he muttered hoarsely. “Just you wait till the rains come, and see how you like it.”
There was no further attempt at conversation. Every now and then Mr. Hamilton swore a deep oath as the cards went against him, which was not often. The Englishman and his partner won or lost without a murmur—the former with real carelessness, the latter with a studied and characteristic nonchalance. Mr. Hamilton was the only one who showed any real interest in the game, and his method of playing, which was a little peculiar, required all his attention.
Outside, the calm of evening deepened into the solemn stillness of night. The moon rose over the pine tops, and the mists floated away down the valley. The breeze dropped, and the trees in the forest were dumb. The three men played steadily on till midnight. Then the Englishman rose up and threw down his cards.
“Out you go, you chaps!” he said shortly. “I’ve had enough of this, and I’m going to turn in.”
The two men rose: Mr. Hamilton grumbling, Morrison as silent as ever. Together they all walked out into the darkness.
“Good night, and be d—d to you!” muttered Mr.
Hamilton surlily as he scrambled down the hillside, holding on to the young fir-trees, and every now and then balancing himself with difficulty. “What the devil were you thinking of when you built your shanty up in the clouds?” he shouted back as at last he reached the bottom. “I’m bruised all over. I’ll be shot if I come again.”
The Englishman laughed out lustily, and thrust his hands into his pockets.
“Good night, Jim!” he shouted, his deep bass voice awakening strange echoes as it travelled across the rocky gorge. “Don’t know what you want to swear at me for! You’ve drunk my whisky, and smoked my tobacco, and won my money, you surly beggar, you! Good night, Pete!” he added to his partner in a milder tone. “Be careful how you go, there! You’ve had as much liquor as you can carry, you have, you idiot!”
He walked a step or two further out, and watched both men gain their shanties. Then he turned round and stood for a moment or two gazing thoughtfully out into the darkness. A sudden impatience had prompted him to get rid of his rough companions, but he had no desire to sleep. The still, starlit night, the faint snowy outline of the distant mountains, the perfume of flowering shrubs, and the night odour of the pines, had quickened his senses and stirred vaguely his inherent love of beauty; so that he was forced to rid himself abruptly of his coarse surroundings and hasten out into the darkness. He leaned against the frail supports of his little dwelling, with folded arms, and dreamed—dreamed of that Eastern world which he had left, and which seemed a thing so far away from this deep majestic solitude. He turned his face towards the plains, and half closed his eyes. His had been a curious and a solitary life; a life oftenest gloomy, yet just once or twice bathed in a very bright light. It was something to think about—these brighter places so few and far between. Did he wish that he was back again where they would be once more possible? He scarcely knew! The fierce trouble and the disquiet of the days behind was no pleasant memory. He looked across, to the mist-topped hills and dark forests, and he felt that they had grown in a measure dear to him. In his heart, this great lonely man with the limbs and sinews of a giant was a poet. He was ignorant of books, and uneducated, but he loved beauty, and he loved nature, and in his way he loved solitude. He was happier here by far than he had been amongst the gilded saloons and cheap haunts of the Western cities. It was only the monotony and the apparent uselessness of his life here that oppressed him. He was a man with a purpose, a purpose which he had followed over land and sea, through cities and lonely places, with a dogged persistence characteristic of the man and of his race. In his expedition here, for the first time he had turned away from it, and the knowledge was beginning to trouble him. The hard physical labour, the glory of his surroundings, the mighty forests and hills broken up into valley, and precipice, and gorge, and all the time overshadowed by that everlasting background of the snow-capped Sierras, these things were all dear to him, and rough and uncultured though he was, they sank deeper into his being day by day, and night by night. He could not have talked about them. Nature had given him the sensibility of the poet and the artist, but education had denied him the use of words with which to express himself. As yet he scarcely appreciated all that he lost. That would conic some day.
Suddenly his dreaming was brought to an abrupt termination. His body stiffened, and his hand felt for the revolver in his belt. With the ready instinct of a man used to all sorts of emergencies, he recognized that he was no longer alone. Yonder, almost at his feet, behind that low prickly shrub, a man was lying.
“Who are you?” he asked quickly. “What do you want here? Put up your hands!”
The reply came only in a faint whisper.
“Bryan! Bryan, come and help me! Give me some brandy! I’m almost done! Thank God, I’ve found you!”
The Englishman stuck his revolver into his belt, and took a giant stride over to the spot.
“Who are you?” he asked, dropping on one knee, “and where, in God’s name, have you come from? How do you know my name?”
The figure raised itself a little. The tattered remnants of a cap fell off, and the moonlight fell upon the wan but strangely handsome face, gleaming in the dark eyes lit up with a sudden eager light.
“Don’t you know me, Bryan?” asked a soft, caressing voice. “Am I so altered?”
The Englishman gave a great start, and his bronzed face grew pale.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “It’s Myra!”
II. ON THE BANKS OF THE BLUE RIVER
The moon, which had risen now high above the wood-crowned hills, was shining with a faint ghostly light upon the new-corner’s wan face. The Englishman, who had started back like a man who sees a vision, as suddenly recovered himself. Surprising though this advent was, there was no doubt as to the identity of his visitor. Neither was there any doubt but that she was on the point of exhaustion. His first duty was plain. She must be taken care of.
“Can you walk into the cabin, or shall I carry you?” he asked, in a tone as matter-of-fact as though he was accustomed every day to receive such visits. “Better carry you, I think! You look all used
