of the curlew and dismal howl of the dingo on the hills. "More blood, more blood!" the cuckoo seemed to cry.
"Quick, Bob!" cried Frank to his companion. "Strike a match. I fear we are too late."
The two lay as dead. Smoke was issuing from the deadly weapon Malduke still grasped in his hand. A stream of blood was oozing from his temple. The shot intended for his enemy had, in the death-struggle, entered his own brain. Malduke had gone to his account. Travers, who, owing to loss of blood, had swooned again, was stretched across the corpse.
For two days he was dazed. Gwyneth he followed to her grave on the hill-top, as in a dream. By degrees the sense of duty and obligation returned. He recalled how she, whom he had loved and lost, brought life and hope to thousands for whom, while her own heart was bleeding, she "made a way in the wilderness."
In the long evenings at Heatherside, new plans were evolved, old sores sought to be healed, but not one word of love was spoken.
