CHAPTER CCIV.
THE CATASTROPHE.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob ascended Shooter’s Hill.
Both were much fatigued—but the former far more so than the latter.
The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.
The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze upon—his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip, and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring upon its prey;—whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a stern—dogged—ferocious determination.
Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.
No sound of vehicles met their ears—no human forms dotted the long highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river traversing the dark plains.
“Well—are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.
“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.