Once more came the faint, muffled sound of a gun; and collecting his fast-flagging energies, Mr Meadows pushed on, until breathless, and with bleeding hands and knees, he stood looking down with astonishment into a little rocky amphitheatre, strewn with provisions and the plunder taken by the convicts from the Moa’s Nest.
He stepped down, for the place appeared to be quite forsaken, and vainly tried to make out the cause of its being untenanted, when, looking round, he started with dismay; for half-seated, half-lying, with his back to the rocks, was the form of a human being, but so disfigured, that it seemed impossible for life to exist in such a ruin. But life was there; for, to the clergyman’s horror, he saw that the man was engaged with a knife in his left hand, slowly and deliberately trying to back off his right at the wrist.
For a few moments, Mr Meadows could not speak; then, hurrying up, he arrested the man, exclaiming, “Surely, friend, that operation cannot be necessary?”
“Let it be—let it be,” was the answer, in a strange, muttering voice, which came from the mutilated face. “It’s a vile hand—a bad hand, stained with crime.”
It required but little effort to wrest the knife from the convict’s hand; and then, binding a handkerchief round the bleeding wrist, Mr Meadows gazed, shuddering, in the man’s face, as his head fell back, and he fainted.
“He cannot live through those injuries,” muttered the clergyman. And leaning forward, he dropped a little brandy from the flask he carried between the man’s lips, when, after a few minutes, he revived, and spoke in a more collected way.
“Is any one there?” he asked.
“Yes; there is one here,” was the reply.
“Come back to finish your work, I suppose?” said the man hoarsely; and he raised his arms, as if to protect his head, but only to drop them directly.
“Where are your companions?”