"Yes; it was Bragg," said the Professor. "Botts and Bragg eyed each other like two angry beasts. Both had weapons, but neither thought of drawing them. Each sprang at his enemy's throat. They were soon rolling on the ground and fiercely fighting. Botts was uppermost, when the kangaroo dog seized him by the seat of his breeches. A little bull terrier ran out from a tent and caught the kangaroo dog by the throat. Uttering howls of rage, and clutching each other by the throat, men and dogs rolled over and over, down the hill and into the river." "Into the water?" exclaimed Tom. "Yes; into the water ten feet deep." "What became of them?" cried Toney. "The dogs ceased to fight and swam ashore," said the Professor. "But the men?" said Toney. "They continued to clutch each other by the throat, and were swept away by the rapid current, and sank to rise no more." "What an awful fate!" exclaimed Toney. "Too awful to talk about," said the Professor. "Let us select some more pleasant topic of conversation." "We have good news for you," said Toney. "What's that?" asked the Professor. Toney now informed him of the sale of the sand-hill, and of their intention to return to the States. A long consultation ensued, and by the time it had ended, Hercules had cooked the deer and it had grown dark. While they were eating the venison, two men encamped, and kindled a fire under a pine-tree, at a distance of about fifty yards from where they sat. After Hercules had satisfied the keen demands of hunger, he walked off, and, laying himself down by the trunk of a fallen tree, was soon in a sound sleep. Toney, Tom, and the Professor continued their conversation until a late hour. "And now, Charley," said Toney, "as this is to be our last night in the mines, let us have some music." "Give us 'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" said Tom. The Professor drew a flute from his pocket and played the air which had been requested. As he concluded, a clear, manly voice, at the neighboring camp-fire, was heard singing: The voice! the voice of music! The melancholy flute! Mournfully on the midnight air, When all else is mute! As if some gentle spirit, With softly trembling voice, Imprisoned in that hollow reed, Mourned o'er perished joys! Cease! cease that mournful music! Oh, cease that plaintive strain! It bids me feel as I would feel Never more again! The fairest hopes long blighted, And youth's bright visions o'er, And joys that shone so heavenly bright, Gone for evermore! These mem'ries rush upon me With each sweet, mournful air; Then, cease! in mercy, cease that strain! Forbear! oh, forbear! "Good heavens!" exclaimed Toney, "I recognize that voice!" And he sprang up and ran to the camp-fire. Two stalwart young men, in the rough garbs of miners, were standing with their backs to the blazing logs. "Harry Vincent!" cried Toney.