When the little party at Bulinda Creek had stepped out on to the verandah, and made themselves comfortable in easy chairs, Tabor turned to Mat, and said,—
“Your history, that you related the other night, is of the deepest interest to me, for I have suffered hardships and lived for a time amongst the natives, but in my case they were not the friendly-disposed fellows that yours proved.
“One matter that you mentioned has struck many of us, especially a friend of mine—an old explorer, too—named Lund. He was not in Sydney at the time of your lecture, but he received the newspapers which so fully gave the account, and wrote to me by return of post. This is what he says: ‘Find out from Stanley anything more about the white men he heard of as passing to the west.’
“I mention this to you, as Lund asked me to; but I may as well say that I heard you asked this very question by numbers of people after your lecture, and, from what I gathered, you said that you knew no more than what you had told them there.”
“That is so, Mr. Tabor; I can add but little to it. Before we knew the language, we guessed, from the signs of the natives, that there were other white men far to the west of us; and months afterwards, when we could speak to the tribes and understand two or three dialects, they again said that they had heard that there was a white man, with some black men and some very large and strange animals, working their way northwards.”
“Then,” said Tabor, with emphasis, “that which every one surmises must be the case. The white man, without doubt, was one of our greatest explorers, who has disappeared for years without leaving the slightest clue as to his ultimate fate.
“My friend, who loved this man as a brother, found himself too old to search for him himself, but he organized an expedition to try and follow him up, with but faint hopes, however, of finding the lost man, as previous similar attempts had utterly failed.
“I have made myself acquainted with poetry and poems, more or less, which have been written by the greatest British and American poets, but never, to my mind, have I ever heard anything which, for lovely expression of holy feelings and great beauty of wording, came up to the lines which my friend wrote on the eve of the departure of the explorers in search of the lost one,—on the one who ever dwelt lightly on the keen sufferings he endured on his former grand expedition, whose simple faith in the goodness of the Almighty seems silently to have supported him in his trials, and to have been thankfully acknowledged.”
So far, the conversation had been carried on between Parson Tabor and Mat, but at this point Annie broke in with,—
“Do you remember those lines, Mr. Tabor, and can you repeat them to us?”