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〃He must die。〃
〃Either you or he；〃 laughs Gabbett。 〃Give me the axe。〃
〃No； no；〃 said the Crow； his thin； malignant face distorted by a horrible resolution。 〃I'll keep the axe。 Stand back！ You shall hold him； and I'll do the job。〃
Sanders； seeing them approach； knew his end was come； and submitted； crying； 〃Give me half an hour to pray for myself。〃 They consent； and the bewildered wretch knelt down and folded his hands like a child。 His big； stupid face worked with emotion。 His great cracked lips moved in desperate agony。 He wagged his head from side to side； in pitiful confusion of his brutalized senses。 〃I can't think o' the words； Jem！〃
〃Pah；〃 snarled the cripple； swinging the axe； 〃we can't starve here all night。〃
Four days had passed； and the two survivors of this awful journey sat watching each other。 The gaunt giant； his eyes gleaming with hate and hunger； sat sentinel over the dwarf。 The dwarf； chuckling at his superior sagacity； clutched the fatal axe。 For two days they had not spoken to each other。 For two days each had promised himself that on the next his companion must sleepand die。 Vetch comprehended the devilish scheme of the monster who had entrapped five of his fellow…beings to aid him by their deaths to his own safety； and held aloof。 Gabbett watched to snatch the weapon from his companion； and make the odds even once and for ever。 In the day…time they travelled on； seeking each a pretext to creep behind the other。 In the night…time when they feigned slumber； each stealthily raising a head caught the wakeful glance of his companion。 Vetch felt his strength deserting him； and his brain overpowered by fatigue。 Surely the giant； muttering； gesticulating； and slavering at the mouth； was on the road to madness。 Would the monster find opportunity to rush at him； and； braving the blood…stained axe； kill him by main force？ or would he sleep； and be himself a victim？ Unhappy Vetch！ It is the terrible privilege of insanity to be sleepless。
On the fifth day； Vetch； creeping behind a tree； takes off his belt； and makes a noose。 He will hang himself。 He gets one end of the belt over a bough； and then his cowardice bids him pause。 Gabbett approaches； he tries to evade him； and steal away into the bush。 In vain。 The insatiable giant； ravenous with famine； and sustained by madness； is not to be shaken off。 Vetch tries to run； but his legs bend under him。 The axe that has tried to drink so much blood feels heavy as lead。 He will fling it away。 Nohe dares not。 Night falls again。 He must rest； or go mad。 His limbs are powerless。 His eyelids are glued together。 He sleeps as he stands。 This horrible thing must be a dream。 He is at Port Arthur； or will wake on his pallet in the penny lodging…house he slept at when a boy。 Is that the Deputy come to wake him to the torment of living？ It is not timesurely not time yet。 He sleepsand the giant； grinning with ferocious joy； approaches on clumsy tiptoe and seizes the coveted axe。
On the north coast of Van Diemen's Land is a place called St Helen's Point； and a certain skipper； being in want of fresh water； landing there with a boat's crew； found on the banks of the creek a gaunt and blood…stained man； clad in tattered yellow； who carried on his back an axe and a bundle。 When the sailors came within sight of him； he made signs to them to approach； and； opening his bundle with much ceremony； offered them some of its contents。 Filled with horror at what the maniac displayed； they seized and bound him。 At Hobart Town he was recognized as the only survivor of the nine desperadoes who had escaped from Colonel Arthur's 〃Natural Penitentiary〃。
END OF BOOK THE THIRD
BOOK IV。NORFOLK ISLAND。 1846。
CHAPTER I。
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV。 JAMES NORTH。
Bathurst； February 11th； 1846。
In turning over the pages of my journal； to note the good fortune that has just happened to me； I am struck by the utter desolation of my life for the last seven years。
Can it be possible that I； James North； the college…hero； the poet； the prizeman； the Heaven knows what else； have been content to live on at this dreary spotan animal； eating and drinking； for tomorrow I die？ Yet it has been so。 My world； that world of which I once dreamt so much； has beenhere。 My famewhich was to reach the ends of the earth has penetrated to the neighbouring stations。 I am considered a 〃good preacher〃 by my sheep…feeding friends。 It is kind of them。
Yet； on the eve of leaving it； I confess that this solitary life has not been without its charms。 I have had my books and my thoughts though at times the latter were but grim companions。 I have striven with my familiar sin； and have not always been worsted。 Melancholy reflection。 〃Not always！〃 〃But yet〃 is as a gaoler to bring forth some monstrous malefactor。 I vowed； however； that I would not cheat myself in this diary of mine； and I will not。 No evasions； no glossings over of my own sins。 This journal is my confessor； and I bare my heart to it。
It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in black and white these agonies and secret cravings of which I dare not speak。 It is for the same reason； I suppose； that murderers make confession to dogs and cats； that people with something 〃on their mind〃 are given to thinking aloud； that the queen of Midas must needs whisper to the sedges the secret of her husband's infirmity。 Outwardly I am a man of God； pious and grave and softly spoken。 Inwardlywhat？ The mean； cowardly； weak sinner that this book knows me。。。Imp！ I could tear you in pieces！。。。One of these days I will。 In the meantime； I will keep you under lock and key； and you shall hug my secrets close。 No； old friend； with whom I have communed so long； forgive me； forgive me。 You are to me instead of wife or priest。 I tell to your cold blue pages how much was it I bought you for in Parramatta； rascal？these stories； longings； remorses； which I would fain tell to human ear could I find a human being as discreet as thou。 It has been said that a man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds； the words would blister the paper。 Yet your sheets are smooth enough； you fat rogue！ Our neighbours of Rome know human nature。 A man must confess。 One reads of wretches who have carried secrets in their bosoms for years； and blurted them forth at last。 I； shut up here without companionship； without sympathy； without letters； cannot lock up my soul； and feed on my own thoughts。 They will out； and so I whisper them to thee。
What art thou； thou tremendous power Who dost inhabit us without our leave； And art； within ourselves； another self； A master self that loves to domineer？
What？ Conscience？ That is a word to frighten children。 The conscience of each man is of his own making。 My friend the shark…toothed cannibal whom Staples brought in his whaler to Sydney would have found his conscience reproach him sorely did he refuse to partake of the feasts made sacred by the customs of his ancestors A spark of divinity？ The divinity that； according to received doctrine； sits apart； enthroned amid sweet music； and leaves poor humanity to earn its condemnation as it may？ I'll