<p> &ldquo;When he heard French, his chin went down and his face changed. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;I deny nothing,&rsquo; says he, panting yet, for I had kept him skipping about in front of my horse pretty smartly. I asked him what he was doing there. He had got his breath by then, and explained that he had meant to make his way to a farm which he understood (from the schooner&rsquo;s people, I suppose) was to be found in the neighbourhood. At that I laughed aloud and he got uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no farm within walking distance? </p> <p> &ldquo;I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and of course the first bunch of cattle he came across would have stamped him to rags under their hoofs. A dismounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn&rsquo;t got the ghost of a chance. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;My coming upon you like this has certainly saved your life,&rsquo; I said. He remarked that perhaps it was so; but that for his part he had imagined I had wanted to kill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured him that nothing would have been easier had I meant it. And then we came to a sort of dead stop. For the life of me I didn&rsquo;t know what to do with this convict, unless I chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to ask him what he had been transported for. He hung his head. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;What is it?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;Theft, murder, rape, or what?&rsquo; I wanted to hear what he would have to say for himself, though of course I expected it would be some sort of lie. But all he said was&mdash; </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is no good denying anything.&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;I looked him over carefully and a thought struck me. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;They&rsquo;ve got anarchists there, too,&rsquo; I said. &lsquo;Perhaps you&rsquo;re one of them.&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,&rsquo; he repeats. </p> <p> &ldquo;This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist. I believe those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves. If he had been one, he would have probably confessed straight out. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;What were you before you became a convict?&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;Ouvrier,&rsquo; he says. &lsquo;And a good workman, too.&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;At that I began to think he must be an anarchist, after all. That&rsquo;s the class they come mostly from, isn&rsquo;t it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing brutes. I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leave him to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best. As to