"That I think I can do," answered Dudley, "though very roughly. You do not know, Edgar," he continued, turning to his young friend, "what it is to lead a rover's life here."
"It is a life I should like beyond all things, for a short time at least," replied Edgar Adelon; but the officer added almost at the same time, addressing Dudley, with a meaning smile, "You have had a good three months' trial of it, sir, at all events."
Dudley hardly knew what to understand from his manner, for there was a shrewd, intelligent look about the man's countenance whenever he addressed him, which plainly indicated that he knew all about his actual situation as an escaped convict, or deserter, as it is frequently called in colonial parlance; but, at the same time, his manner was respectful, and not in the least degree menacing, so that Dudley could not suppose for one moment, either from his general demeanour or from the company in which he came thither, that his object was to apprehend and convey him back to a penal settlement. Yet what was he to think? What was he to expect? He did not venture to indulge in hopes, for the bright promise-maker had so frequently deceived him that he trusted her no longer; and even the first whisper of her voice, sweet and soothing as it ever is, he shrunk from, as if it had been the fanning of a vampire's wing lulling him into a fatal repose. Hope was, indeed, the enemy whom he dreaded most, for he feared that that sweet voice of hers might prove more treacherous than man's bitterest hate. Neither could he understand how his fate could have been changed; but while he said to himself, "No, I will not indulge in hope," he trusted still.
Giving his horse to the servant who followed him, Edgar Adelon walked on by Dudley's side, sometimes conversing with him and sometimes in silence. They looked at each other frequently, with an anxious glance, as if each had much to say to the other--questions to ask, tales to tell, intelligence to communicate; but there were so many always round them, that it would have been difficult to say one word unheard, and the common feelings and thoughts of mutual interests in the breasts of both were not fitted for indifferent ears. They had proceeded some ten or twelve miles in this manner, and Dudley thought he perceived that Edgar walked with a fainter pace, when they arrived upon the bank of a broad but not very deep river, a tributary, apparently, of the Murray or the Glenelg. Dudley had crossed it on the preceding day, and knew that in no place it was more than knee-deep. He was about to walk in at once, therefore, but Edgar knelt down upon the bank to drink, saying, "I am dreadfully thirsty, and hungry too, if the truth must be told; for we expected to find provisions at your house, Mr. Norries, but were disappointed by not finding you within."
"You should have gone in and taken them, young gentleman," replied Norries; "we never scruple at such things in the scrub. Every man is welcome to whatever the house contains in the way of food. I dare say, however, Mr. Dudley has a biscuit or two in his wallet. You look faint."
"He has not touched a morsel all day," said the officer. "He was so eager to get forward, we could not make him eat."
"I have only three hard biscuits left," answered Dudley; "but stay, I have the means of getting more nourishing food. I saw fish in this river as I passed yesterday, and they must be at feed about this time. If you will light a fire, I will soon get some." And drawing out a winder with a strong line, he sought along the bank for bait. A peculiar kind of grub appeared in plenty near the roots of the trees; and while Edgar lay down on the bank to rest himself, Dudley cut a sapling for a rod, and once more tried his fortune for a meal out of the waters. The first cast of his line was unsuccessful; and suffering the bait to float slowly down, the fisherman was preparing to draw it out a second time, when he suddenly felt a tug, which nearly drew the rod he had made out of his hands. The officer and one of the other men had followed him, watching his sport; and although, by every device he could think of, Dudley strove to save his line from snapping, and draw the fish to the shore, it soon became apparent that without a reel, or any appropriate tackle, he must be unsuccessful; and the officer, plunging in, exclaimed, "I will kill him!" and ran his left hand down the line, opening a large clasp-knife with the other. He had to rue the experiment, however, for the moment after having bent down and dipped his arms in the water, he drew them out again, exclaiming, "He has cut me to the bone!" but he resolutely attempted the feat again, and appeared to succeed, for shutting up his knife, and taking hold of the line, he drew it slowly to the side, when, with Dudley's assistance, he lifted out an enormous fish of the perch kind, weighing not less than fifty pounds.[[2]] A fire was by this time lighted; and the fish, cut into slices, was put to broil thereon, affording, in a few minutes, a very satisfactory meal to the whole party.
When somewhat refreshed, Edgar Adelon looked up, saying with a smile, "I feel stronger how, Dudley, thanks to the Nameless Fisherman of the Nameless Lake." And in those few words, a part, at least, of the history of Edgar's coming was told to his companion. After resting for about an hour and a half, the whole party rose, and pursued their way to the foot of Mount Gambier, which began to tower above them as they advanced; and when, having left some of the party below with the horses, the others reached the top, the same wild and magnificent scene was presented to the eyes of Edgar Adelon, in the light of the setting sun, which had welcomed Dudley on the day of his first arrival. The effect was great upon an enthusiastic and impressible mind, and he exclaimed, "Well, Dudley, methinks it would not be so hard to pass one's days in such a spot as this."
"This is not its only aspect," answered Dudley, laying his hand upon his arm.
"And it is so with everything in life," said Norries. "There is scarcely any object in any state so inherently beautiful, or so inherently hideous, that the light in which we view them will not render them either pleasant or repulsive to the eye."