But the day drags on, whether the stormy north refuses the traveller the sight of the sun, or the languid south bestows too much of that indispensable potentate. The welcome coolness and dim shades of eve had commenced when the wayside inn was reached, the last roof shelter which the dead had known, where they had quaffed their last draught and possibly told their last jest. On the bank of a creek at some few miles’ distance they had determined to make their camp, preferring it for some reasons to the inn. And there they had found their last resting-place. Ernest remembered noticing the care and completeness which marked the men’s equipment, their muscular, well set-up figures, their easy seats as they rode their high-constitutioned, well-bred horses up the street on the morning of their departure. And now they lay prone and motionless among the thick withering grass; above them waved the melancholy, sighing casuarina, from the branches of which croaked the raven―far-scenting herald of doom, sable watcher by the dead. As he thought of the manly, pleasant faces he could recall so easily, but of yesterday, as it seemed, the strongest feelings of wrath and hatred were stirred within him, and he muttered an imprecation of swift vengeance upon the head of the cold-blooded assassin Jones, if that indeed were the name of a wretch unfit to cumber earth. The sad surroundings, the gloomy tone of Mr. Neuchamp’s thoughts, did not lead him to decline the respectable meal to which he found himself bidden along with the gentlemen of the party. Markham and the troopers occupied another apartment, in which they made themselves fairly comfortable. The horses were stabled, and, save for the inevitable death-scene of the morrow, the evening would have passed not uncheerfully. As it was, however, Mr. Merlin organised whist, and even encouraged a little quasi-gambling by proposing higher stakes than usual. The chief result of which was that Mr. Neuchamp, having the experienced Lionel Greffham for a partner, won more money than he had lost in many an unsuccessful night in Turonia. In vain did Bright and Merlin ‘plunge’ by way of recouping their losses. The luck of Mr. Greffham was altogether too good; and Merlin, about midnight, gave in, saying, ‘You have the devil’s luck, as usual, Greffham. I wonder how long it will stick to you.’ ‘Who knows?’ answered he indifferently, ringing the bell and ordering refreshment on a liberal scale. ‘It has held on pretty well so far. It may turn, though, and then I think I could find a bullet for myself and a quiet couch.’