the Leura.

Bridget was leaning forward in her squatter's chair, her fingers
grasping the arms of it, her face very white and her eyes staring too,
as though they also beheld the scene of horror.

Presently McKeith came back, pale too, but quite composed.

'I beg your pardon,' he said stiffly. 'Perhaps I should not have told
you.'

'It's--horrible. But I'm glad to know. Thank you for telling me.'

He looked at her wistfully. There was silence for a moment or two.

'And you . . . you . . . where were you?' she stammered.

'Me! I was with the drays, you know. We got back about noon that
day. . . . If we'd been twelve hours sooner! Well, I suppose I should
have been murdered with the rest. . . . The blacks had gone off with their
loot. . . . We . . . we buried our dead. . . . And then we ran up our
best horses and never drew rein for forty miles till we'd got to where
a band of the Native Police were camped. . . . And then . . . we took
what vengeance we could. . . . It wasn't complete till a long time
afterwards.'

He was standing behind Bridget's chair, his eyes still gazing beyond
the river. He did not notice that she leaned back suddenly, and her
hands fell nervelessly to her lap. He felt a touch on his arm. It was
Mrs Gildea, who had come out to the veranda again. 'Colin,' she said,