“A curious way you took to prove that, by trying to knock me down,” I answered, as Dick Nailor relieved me of the charge of the man, by taking hold of his collar and one arm and forcing him onwards.
“Come along with us to our camp, and we shall learn more about you.”
The man said nothing in return, and he felt that in the grasp of the giant resistance was useless.
We quickly reached the camp, where we found Bob Hunt trying to comfort my wife and daughters, who had been much alarmed at hearing the shot fired and finding me absent.
By the light of the lantern held to the prisoner’s face we saw that he was pale and haggard, that his hair was long and uncombed, and that a razor had not touched his chin or lips for many a day; while his clothes were rudely patched, and even thus hardly hung together. Thus we could not but believe the account he gave of his hunger and suffering—indeed, I had heard that most of the men who had taken to the bush soon died of starvation, or were killed by the blacks.
We quickly put some biscuits and cheese before our prisoner. He ate of it ravenously, giving way occasionally to an hysterical laugh. His eyes sparkled when I gave him some rum and water. I saw that he required a stimulant, and I would not allow him to take any more solid food. Compassion for the poor wretch predominated above any other feeling.
It was useless to inquire what circumstances had brought him to that condition. Sin was the cause of it, of course; but he required help, and, in spite of his attack on me, I felt that it ought to be given him.
While he was eating, it struck me that I was well acquainted with his countenance.
After looking again and again, I felt nearly sure that I was right, strange as it seemed; and grateful I was that I had not in our struggle taken his life or injured him.