The day passed slowly. The trooper lay among the mosses below the great blue-gum in earnest thought. Once or twice he imagined he heard the subterranean chuckle and slap of the thigh which usually denoted amusement on the part of the miner; but on glancing up at that individual, the expression of his face was so solemn, not to say funereal, that it was evidently an illusion. They partook of their scanty dinner and supper cheerfully and with hearty appetites. The former listlessness had given place to briskness and activity, now that their object was in view. Chicago blossomed out into many strange experiences and racy reminiscences of Western life. The hours passed rapidly and cheerily. The trooper produced a venerable pack of cards from his holster and proposed euchre; but their gregariousness, and the general difficulty of distinguishing the king of clubs from the ace of hearts, exercised a depressing influence upon the players. Gradually the sun went down on the great wilderness. The shadow fell on the little glade, while the distant hill was still tipped with gold; then that too became purplish, a star twinkled over the Tápu range, and night crept over the scene. “Good-by, old man,” said Braxton. “I won’t take my carbine; it would only be in the way. I can’t thank you enough for letting me have this chance. If they wipe me out, Bill, you’ll not lose sight of them, I know; and you’ll say I died like a man. I’ve got no friends and no message, and nothing in the world but this pack of cards. Keep them, Bill; they were a fine pack in ’51. If you see a smoke on the hill in the morning you’ll know all’s well, and you’ll bring up the horses at once. If you don’t, you’ll ride to Fallen Pine, where we were to meet--ride day and night, Bill--tell Inspector Burton that you know where the rangers are, that Private Braxton is dead, and that he said he was to bring up his men, else he’d come back from the grave and lead them up himself. Do that, Bill. Good-by.” A great quiet rested over the heart of that desolate woodland. The croak of a frog, the gurgle of a little streamlet half hidden in the long grass--no other sound. Then a wakeful jay gave a shrill chatter, another joined, and another; a bluefinch screamed; a wombat rushed past to gain its burrow. Something had disturbed them; yet all was apparently as peaceful as before. Had you been by the jay’s nest, however, and peered downward, you would have seen something gliding like a serpent through the brushwood, and caught a glimpse, perhaps, of a pale, resolute face, and the glint of a pocket-compass pointing north-by-east.