The two men probably pretended to be actuated by friendly feelings towards each other; each one endeavouring to put the other off his guard; but each knew that the other was only watching for an opportunity to slay him. For two days they walked side by side at a safe distance apart; each afraid to let the other get behind him, or near enough to spring upon him; and each was also afraid to allow the other to get out of sight because of the certainty that he would merely dog him through the scrub until an opportunity to strike occurred. For two nights they sat facing each other, a short distance apart, each afraid to go to sleep or to allow the other to go out of sight. If one rose up the other started to his feet immediately. Every slight movement of one caused the other to be on the alert. The tension must have been fearful. At length, when the second night was drawing to a close, Greenhill could bear up no longer. He dozed, and Pierce sprang on him at once. That is something like the tradition handed down among the "old hands," who knew nothing of Pierce's confession, but who had heard the tale from companions of the cannibal himself. There was a time when it was frequently told round the camp fire in rough, coarse language, plentifully intermingled with profanity, but the old hands have died out and it is heard no longer. Pierce, the cannibal, has been almost forgotten, and yet the story has its moral. It affords us an example of the terrible depths of degradation to which men can be reduced by brutal treatment, and it is not good that the story of Alexander Pierce should be forgotten as long as any remains of the old prison discipline which produced such men continues to exist, either in Australia or in any other civilised country.