'CONSPICUOUS GALLANTRY BY A NEW SOUTH WALES TROOPER'
was the heading of the cable. Below it said:
'During the engagement, Trooper Stevenson, of the N.S.W. Bush Contingent, made a most gallant rescue. He galloped to the assistance of General Strong, whose horse had fallen, and bore him under a scathing fire to a place of safety. General Strong escaped unhurt, and obtained another horse, but while galloping after his troop through the dusk, Stevenson was hit by a bullet, and killed instantaneously.'
'Just the sort of thing old Morty would do,' Bart said, his throat thick.
'I am thinking of the poor old man,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'It will kill him. Jim, you had better go up; you might be able to do something. None of the other sons are at home.'
'I'll go, certainly,' Cameron said; 'but it won't kill him. His pride in the lad's courage will keep him up.'
'I say,' said Bart, 'he won't have got the paper yet. That fellow Barnes was waiting for the mail while I was, and he had been drinking frightfully. It'll be hours before he gets back. I saw him turn in to the Golden Fleece as I came along.'
A strange stifled cry came from the end of the table. It was no use; Miss Browne had fought desperately to keep her self-control, but nature was too strong for her, and she was struggling with a piteous fit of hysterics.
Mrs. Cameron went round to her, got her to the sofa, opened the neck of her dress, administered cold water, spoke firmly and decidedly to her. There was nothing in the poor woman's cries for a long time, and she only pushed at Mrs. Cameron, as if trying to force her away. Finally a word came from her choking throat:
'Hermie!' she cried, and pointed to the open door. 'Go—to—Hermie.'