"Ready with your carbines, men!—we have fallen upon a gang of bushrangers."
I heard the ominous click of the locks of the guns, and cleared the blood from my eyes to get a view of our assailants.
"We are no bushrangers," shouted Smith, starting forward and fronting the officer. "You should know my face, lieutenant," he continued, to the man in command.
"Ah, Smith, is it you?" the lieutenant said, in a sort of patronizing way, and riding forward. "Put up your guns, men; we are not among bushrangers, I think." And in obedience to his command, the men slung the carbines at their backs, and rode forward.
"What is the matter with that fellow?" the officer of police asked, pointing to me.
"He was just injured by a knife, sir, in the hands of this woman, who has lost her reason," answered Smith, in the most obsequious manner.
"Lost her reason, hey," said the lieutenant, carelessly. "Then she has no business here; or rather I should say that no persons of sense would be here if they could help it."
The mounted troop laughed, as in duty bound, and even Smith suffered his features to relax in token of appreciation of the officer's facetiousness.
"Where are you two fellows from?" inquired the lieutenant, turning towards Fred and myself abruptly.
By this time I had bound up my head with a handkerchief, and wiped some of the blood from my face. The wound had nearly ceased bleeding, thanks to some lint which I always carried about me.