"Is there any conveyance to be had here to take us to Port Arthur?" asked Hal.
"None, unless you wire to old Brown at the Port to bring his cart over."
"Then we'll walk. Where's the road?"
"Go right ahead, then turn to the right and follow the telegraph wire. It will take you right into the Port," said Clarke, pointing out the direction.
"I suppose you don't know if there is a yacht lying there?"
"Yes there is, or at least there was yesterday. It belongs to a young fellow named Wyckliffe, who sent word he was coming my way to-day, as he expected a lady," answered Clarke, with a smile.
"Well, good-bye, we will be back some time to-day," as they started on their journey.
They found the road very hilly, and monotonous, lined on either side with thick scrub and dotted here and there with the solitary house of a selector. Having completed the ascent of a fairly high hill, they got their first view of Port Arthur, where it lay in a small valley surrounded with rough and mountainous country. Huge masses of ruins lay in all directions, for it was on the shores of this loveliest of bays that the early convict settlement was made. This fair spot, one of Nature's most exuberant freaks, was the scene, in that fearful past, of many a deed of atrocious barbarity. Very few houses still remain entire. Many familiar English trees surround the blackened ruins of the little church, which was destroyed by fire some years ago. Round its deserted walls the ivy still clings, hiding its ruins with a tender cloak of greenery as one who says, "Je meurs ou je m'attache."
"I can't see anything of the yacht," said Reg, as he glanced anxiously round the bay.
"No, none of the boats there could be called a yacht. Say, where's the hotel?" asked he of an old fellow standing by.