"Yes, he was a Sydney Sider," he cried. "But I do not remember any more, Smith. When I was a man, and led the tribe, we came towards the setting sun always. And the weak ones died, or we ate them, and the strong ones were saved. And our tribe is small, but it is strong, and the black-fellows fear us as they do the devils. And when they see our mark they fly."
"What is the mark?" asked Smith.
"The Brodarro," cried the old man, as if it was a war-cry, and the word was so like the sound of a native word, that for a moment Smith did not understand. Then he saw it.
"Ah, the Broad Arrow," he said.
"I said the Brodarro," cried the old man again. "And where we come the others go. They call us the white devils of the Brodarro. But they are snakes, snakes and scorpions, and we tread on them, we tread on them! My boy Jack eats their tribes up. He is a man, and can fight."
And the old man fell upon his knees, and pushed Smith away.
"Let me come out to the fire," He crawled till he came to the entrance, and then rose.
"I was a man, Smith. Take me to the fire."
Smith took him by the arm, and led the feeble father of that fierce race into the light. He saw then that the man who talked was the wreck of a giant. Though he stooped, he must have once been taller even than his son, who over-topped Smith by inches. The old man trembled as he walked, and his knotty joints creaked; but there was a gleam in his eyes still.
"Let me come to the fire," he said, and those near it gave him and Smith scant room, with scanter courtesy. Old age had no claims on them; it was but a burden. He who could no longer fight, who could not hunt, who was no longer able to fish, of what use was he? Let him die, and free them of a useless member of a band who could give no hostages in a merciless fight with nature.