He threw his weapon upon the ground, folded his arms, and said, in a tone devoid of fear: “Comrades, do with me what you will. I could not help doing what I did. It was either my brother’s life or his. Sandy was innocent of the crime charged against him. Is there any one among you that would stand by and see his brother murdered before his eyes when he had the means of preventing it?”
The bushrangers looked at each other in doubt. They had at first accepted the captain’s statement that Sandy Graham was a traitor. His brother’s explanation of his attempted desertion put a new face on the matter. Then, again, there was not one among them that had not tired of their despotic leader. Alive, he had impressed them with fear, but he was far from popular, and had no real friend among them. It was a moment of doubt when a leader was wanted.
“Well,” said Robert Graham, after a pause, “what are you going to do with me? I wait your pleasure.”
“He ought to be served as he served the captain,” said Fletcher, who disliked Graham.
“I say no,” rejoined Rupert Ring, a man of medium height, but of great muscular development. “It was a terrible deed, but had my brother been in Sandy Graham’s shoes, I would have done the same.”
There was a half murmur, which seemed like approval.
“I move, therefore, that we pass over Robert Graham’s deed as one to which he was impelled by brotherly affection, and that we restore Sandy Graham to his place in our ranks, on condition that he does not repeat the offence. Those who agree with me, hold up their right hands.”
All hands were raised except that of Fletcher.
“Release the prisoner,” said Ring, turning to the two attendants.
Instantly the rope was cut, the dark cloth was removed, and Sandy Graham, a tall, athletic, good-looking fellow, stepped forth, his face pale from the terrible strain to which he had been subjected.