such as only a strong man cares to initiate, against the seduction of passionate speculation, and the too hasty desertion of facts and reason. But it was easy to see that Gordon and William Burlow now spoke to Philip with a sort of deference in their manner and their ideas akin to subserviency. The weak moment had supervened, and they were offering unconscious homage to his lucky star, and the homage seemed growing kindred to a blinded trust. So they conversed of probabilities till, elated, Philip in a louder tone said that he felt he could lead them where such might be found—he felt he should be so fortunate if they would explore.
At this moment they were stricken, as it were, into a momentary silence. They heard, first a snap, as of some one treading on a dry stick, outside the tent; then the sound as something touched an old tin dish which lay outside, and after that, of rapidly retreating footsteps. Some one had been listening. In a moment they were all outside the tent. Gordon and William Burlow were first. It was almost dark, but Philip, looking in the opposite direction from that in which the step had been first heard, saw a man just entering the belt of trees near to which the tent was pitched. He called out and pointed. In an instant both Gordon and William Burlow fired their revolvers—Gordon twice—but without effect, and the man, whoever he was, was gone.
"Who was he?" asked James Burlow.
"Who can he be?" echoed Gordon.
"I did not see his face; I only caught sight of him for a moment as he went behind the trees," said Philip.
"Probably one of the ticket-of-leave scoundrels," said William Burlow; "we must look out."
But Philip knew, although he said nothing more.
He had noticed that the man was more than ordinarily tall, and that he had a peculiar limping action with the right leg. He knew him, but to have said so might have brought to light a weakness under which he suffered. As they were to move, to be silent could have in it no harm. He was silent, though he felt his face burn. He covered a first weakness, which to have made known would have so detracted from his present exaltation, with another weakness, and said nothing more.
The fact was this. Philip's father was captain in the —th. The regiment was long stationed at Bareilly, in the Indian service. To his poor wife, Philip's mother, John Fraser had behaved with brutal meanness, and the dissolute rascal spent her money recklessly; but he spent also more than hers. He was known to have defrauded Richard Gordon's father of a large sum by an ingenious transaction, the particulars of which had never seen the light; and in this he was said to have been helped by a certain Major Cutler, of a native regiment stationed at the same place. Philip knew as much as this of the matter, but no more. On the first day of his arrival, when Philip was inquiring for his friends, he had got from many of the diggers but short answers and no information, till he asked a tall man, who, muddy to the eyes, was working a cradle with great avidity, and who, unlike the rest, stepped forward for a moment with some politeness, and pointed to the very next claim, where James and William Burlow were working. Philip had remembered the strange courtesy, and returned it, as he was working, in a hasty acquaintanceship. The man was called William Brisbane. Before they knew each other's names, in some light talk Philip had alluded to Brisbane's lameness, when he said carelessly that "he had been in the army, and got a ball in his right knee in a duel at Bareilly; but he had left the army now." Some time after this, one evening, Philip went across to a small store a good distance off to fetch something, where he saw Brisbane, who was drinking and playing cards on a barrel-head with another digger. Brisbane cheated, and Philip saw the trick. The two players quarrelled, and a drunken fight ensued, in which each used furious words, and Philip heard Brisbane's opponent use these, "You thieving hound! You daren't use your own name. I don't care who knows it, Major Cutler. That's your name—Major William Brisbane Cutler!" Cutler turned his eye on Philip's face in an instant, and a drunken reconciliation and a restoration followed. Philip departed, but had not gone far toward his tent before Cutler limped after him, and overtaking him, said, "I say, Fraser, I want to say a word to you—and you had better stop to hear me," he added, fiercely.
"Well, Mr. ———," began Philip with some hesitation.
"Call me Brisbane, you know," said Cutler, with a nasty chuckle. "I don't want any quarrelling unless you do. I know more about you than perhaps you think; at all events I know you well, for I knew your father in India. You heard what that man said to me just now, and I could see you knew my name when you heard it. Well, it is my name. Have you heard it before?"
"I have heard it before."
"So I thought. Well, other people don't know it here, and it suits me that they shouldn't. I shall be much obliged if you won't mention it, especially in your gang," he said;