As Esmeralda rode along between her two captors, she felt that they were ascending one of the hills, and then that they were going down on the other side. Neither of the men spoke, and at last she said:

“Will you not take this thing off my head?”

“Not yet,” growled the man on her right.

She knew that prayers and protestations would be of no avail, and said no more.

It would be vain to deny that she was frightened; but she was not overcome by terror, and she was able to reason. It occurred to her that they did not mean to kill her, or they would have shot her long before this. It was not the first time she had been in danger; for in the rough and lawless camps which first dotted the wilds of Australia, life was not held of much account, and men—and women, too—were often in peril of life and limb.

She had been reared amid scenes which would have terrified a London girl to death, and her nerve, strengthened by her rough experiences, did not desert her at this juncture. Once or twice she could even feel that she was capable of a smile, though the smile did not actually come. Very few duchesses had ridden across Australian hills with their heads muffled in a cloth and a couple of ruffians with drawn revolvers at her side. If Lilias could only see her now!

After a considerable ride, they pulled up; the man lifted her from the horse, and taking her hand, led her into a hut; Esmeralda offering no resistance, for she knew it would be worse than useless.

The man removed the cloth from her head, and, passing her hand across her eyes—for they were confused by their long blindfolding—she saw that she was in a diggers’ hut. A woman stood by a table holding a candle in her hand. Esmeralda’s heart rose as she saw her, and she looked at her with more than the usual feminine curiosity—with an anxious scrutiny. The woman was middle-aged, with a careworn face which was not altogether repellant. She glanced at Esmeralda, then looked at Simon, as if awaiting his orders.

“We’ve brought her,” said Simon, shortly. Then he turned to Esmeralda: “So long as you keep quiet and behave yourself, nobody’ll do yer any harm; I’d advise you not to make any attempt to get away.”

Esmeralda said nothing, but stood looking at the woman.

“Give her some food,” said Simon, “and make her comfortable. We’ve no grudge against her, as long as she doesn’t try to escape. We’re outside, remember,” he added, to Esmeralda.

The two men went out, and Esmeralda sunk into a chair. The woman put some food on the table and motioned Esmeralda to eat and drink. She drank some tea and nibbled at some bread and butter, though, as may be well understood, she was not much inclined for eating; but she deemed it best to put on a cheerful countenance and affect to take things coolly.

“Will you tell me your name?” she asked the woman.

The woman bit her lip, as if she found it difficult to resist the fascination of the sweet voice and the lovely, pleading eyes.

“My name don’t matter,” she said. “You’d best not talk.”

She glanced unconsciously toward the door.

Esmeralda smiled a little wearily.

“Why not?” she said, pleasantly. “There’s no harm in talking, surely, and I shall not say anything that I mind their hearing. Do you know how long I am to be kept here?”

The woman shook her head.

“I don’t know anything,” she said, “and I couldn’t tell you if I did. Them’s my orders, and I’ve got to obey them.”

She sighed as she spoke, and Esmeralda quickly divined that the woman was an unwilling participant in her capture and detention. Out of pity for her she refrained from asking any more questions, but finished her tea and sat silent, with her head upon her hand.

“You’d best lie down,” said the woman; and she pointed to a rough bed in the corner.

“Thank you,” said Esmeralda, gently, as she got up and went to the bed; but she made no pretense of sleeping, and lay on her elbow, watching the woman thoughtfully.

“Will you not let me help you wash up?” she said, presently. “I’m not used to sitting by and seeing others at work that I can help in.”

The woman shook her head.

“You look like a great lady,” she said, reluctantly, and as if she could not help speaking, which was not strange, for few men and women in the great world of London had been able to resist the subtle fascination of Esmeralda’s manner.

“I am Esmeralda of Three Star Camp,” she said; “that is all.”

The woman stopped in the process of washing up, and looked at her with an interest marked by the same reluctance.

“I heard somewhere that you was a great lady,” she said—“that you was a lady by birth and in your own right.”

“Well, I suppose I am,” said Esmeralda, with a little laugh, for it struck her as comical that she should be the Duchess of Belfayre. “But it doesn’t much matter, does it, seeing that I’m a prisoner here?” Then suddenly a thought flashed upon her. “Do you think they want money?” she asked. “Because, if so—”

The woman shook her head.

“I don’t know anything about it; I don’t think so.”

Esmeralda dropped back with a sigh.

Simon had really made a very great mistake. Instead of applying to Varley Howard for ransom, he should have obtained a written promise for a sum of money from Esmeralda; but he had either not thought of this, or deemed it better to obtain cash on the nail.

“If it is money they want,” said Esmeralda, “I would give them what they asked. I am not anxious or afraid about myself, but I know what trouble they will be in at Three Star.” Her voice faltered for the first time, and she turned her head aside. “Go and tell them what I say.”

The woman hesitated for a moment or two, then she went to the door and spoke to the man on guard there.

“It ain’t for me to say,” Esmeralda heard him answer. “Simon’s gone away for a bit; she can speak to him when he comes back.”

The woman continued talking for a minute or two, and during that time Esmeralda looked round the hut. She saw a man’s coat hanging on a nail, and her quick eyes caught the glint of a revolver stock protruding from the pocket. She darted from the bed noiselessly, snatched the revolver from the pocket, and concealed it in the folds of her dress as she lay down again in her former attitude. The woman came back to the table and stolidly took up a plate.

“It can’t be done now,” she said; “you’ll have to wait.”

“Very well,” said Esmeralda, with a sigh.

Then she let her head fall upon the pillow and closed her eyes, to think, not to sleep.

She knew she was not in a camp, by the intense silence around, and she rightly judged that she had been brought to a hut on one of the deserted claims which were so numerous in the district. When once a claim was deserted, it was not only neglected, but shunned as a place of ill luck. No doubt Simon had taken refuge here from the police. No one was likely to pass in this direction, and no one could approach without giving Simon timely warning. She was a prisoner on this lonely hill, utterly helpless, and in the power of two unscrupulous men. But was she helpless? Her hand closed upon the revolver, and her heart beat with a throb of that spirit which she had breathed into her with the free air of Three Star. She had heard that Simon had gone; there was, therefore, only one man on guard, and this woman who bore her no ill will. She began to think of escape, and her heart beat so fast that she could almost fancy the woman would hear it. She opened her eyes from time to time and looked at the woman, measuring her, as it were, and asking herself whether she was a match for her in strength.

It was evident by Simon’s leaving them and the carelessness of the guard outside—for she could hear him snoring at intervals—that it had not occurred to them that she should dare to make any attempt at escape, by which they proved that they did not know Esmeralda of Three Star. She lay still, thinking intently. All her married life passed before her as in a panorama. She wondered where Trafford was at that moment. Perhaps he had obtained a divorce and was going to marry Lady Ada; her eyelids quivered, and a long sigh broke from her parched lips. The woman started.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

Esmeralda smiled.

“Would you be able to sleep if you were in my place?” she asked.

The woman bit her lip.

“I’d try to sleep, all the same,” she said, doggedly. “P’r’aps you’re cold; I’ll get you another blanket.”

She passed behind the bed and reached up to a shelf for the blanket. As she did so, Esmeralda rose, and gliding behind her, touched her on the forehead with the muzzle of the revolver.

“Don’t cry out, don’t speak!” she said in a whisper.

The woman dropped her arms and turned her head away with a startled and terrified expression on her careworn face.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Esmeralda in the lowest of whispers. “I am not going to shoot you—but you can pretend I am—I mean to escape, and you may as well help me, while pretending not to. Don’t speak! You’re a woman like myself; think of what your friends would be suffering if you had been carried off as I have been—if you were in the same danger as I am! It is of them I am thinking more than myself, and I mean to get away.”

The woman trembled, though more in fear of the men than Esmeralda, as Esmeralda felt.

“You can’t,” she said, hoarsely. “There’s the man outside.”

Esmeralda backed behind the door, still covering the woman with the revolver.

“Call him in,” she said in a whisper. “Offer him supper, a drink.”

The woman stood stolidly silent for a moment, and Esmeralda watched her with a fast-beating heart. Was she going to refuse, or going to give the alarm? It was a moment of suspense which seemed to spin into years, for she knew that if her attempt failed her life would pay the forfeit. Her eyes were fixed upon the woman’s face with an imploration in them more eloquent than any spoken prayer could have been; it was woman pleading to woman for help against their natural foe—man.

The struggle that was going on within the woman’s mind was clearly depicted on her face. She hesitated for another moment, then she said in a voice of affected carelessness:

“Bill, you’d better come in and have something to eat and drink.”

Esmeralda held her breath and waited. She had heard the man yawn and stretch himself; then the door opened and he entered, rubbing his eyes and yawning again.

Esmeralda glided between him and the door, and said, quietly, though every vein in her body was thrilling with excitement:

“Throw up your arms!”

The man swung round with an oath to find himself covered by the revolver. His amazement was almost ludicrous, and he looked from Esmeralda to the woman in speechless astonishment for a moment.

“Well,” he exclaimed, with an oath; “if this don’t beat anything! How did she come by the iron?”

The woman shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said, dully.

The man glanced at the coat hanging up on the wall of the hut, and nodded.

“Well,” he said, philosophically, “it’s Simon’s coat, not mine. He can’t blame me.”

He had his arms above his head, of course, as he spoke, and in his bewilderment and chagrin he looked more comical than ever; but Esmeralda knew that one false move of hers would turn the comedy into a tragedy. The man had received orders to shoot her if she attempted to escape, and he would carry them out promptly enough if she gave him the chance.

Still covering him, she advanced slowly, and with fingers that trembled notwithstanding her courage, she drew the revolver from his belt.

The man offered no resistance, for he had heard of Esmeralda; and if he had not, there was something in her flashing eyes, and her lips, set resolutely, which would have inspired him with a wholesome fear.

“Now get me the horse!” she said.

The man looked at her with a reluctant admiration.

“You’re a game ’un!” he said. “It ’pears to me that Simon has met his match at last.” Then he turned to the woman: “I hold you to witness that it was no fault of mine. It wa’n’t my revolver she got hold of.”

The woman inclined her head.

“Get the horse,” said Esmeralda again. “This woman is as blameless as you. I threatened to shoot her, and would have done so. You forgot when you took me that I was reared in Three Star.”

She could not have denied herself the note of triumph if her life had depended upon it.

“Yes; you’re always one too many for us,” said the man, resignedly. “But there’ll be the devil to pay when Simon comes back.”

“Then pay him!” said Esmeralda. “Get the horse!”

As the man left the hut, she went to the woman and held out her hand.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “I know that you’re glad I am escaping; for you are a woman, as I am.”

The woman’s hand closed over hers and her lips moved.

“Yes, I am glad,” she said, casting a fearful glance toward the back of the man; “but you have not gone off yet.”

“I am not afraid,” said Esmeralda.

Her colloquy with the woman had taken but a second, and she followed close upon the man’s heels. The horse was tethered close beside the hut; the man put the saddle on without a word, and Esmeralda sprung into it, the revolver still in her hand. The horse was a young one, full of spirit and eager to be off, but she reined him in for a moment.

“You won’t tell me the way to Three Star, I suppose?” she said in her sweet voice.

The man looked up at her for a moment in silence.

“Well!” he exclaimed, with an oath, “if you ain’t the coolest hand I’ve ever met with, may I be roasted eternally!” Then he blurted out: “Keep on the ridge till you come to the stump of a pine, then turn to the left, past the old Raven Claim, and go down the track—and may Gawd help me when Simon comes back!”

“Thank you,” said Esmeralda, as courteously as if she were in a London ball-room; and the next moment the man was left staring after her, still in a state of mingled bewilderment and admiration.

At noon of that day the good people of Wally-Wally were startled by a man riding at full gallop into what is called its market-place. The horse was covered with sweat, flecked with foam, and panting as if it had just won the Derby; the man was white, almost livid, and his short hair clung to his brows in perspiring streaks. He was covered with dust and without his hat, for it had fallen off some ten miles back and had been disregarded and left to ornament the plain. It took the crowd some few minutes to recognize in this perspiring and livid gentleman the usually calm and languid individual, Mr. Varley Howard, the well-known gambler; but when they recognized him, they gathered round him with sympathetic and curious glances and questions.

“Riding a race against time, Varley?” said one.

“Anybody’s house afire?” inquired another.

“What’s yer hurry, Varley?” demanded a third.

Varley slid from his horse.

“Is the bank closed?” he asked in a voice rendered dry and husky by the clouds of dust through which he’d passed like the Spirit of Life or Death, by the terrible exertion crowded into those few short hours.

“Just closing,” said one. “What’s the matter, Varley?”

“Nothing,” said Varley, languidly. “I want eighteen pence to pay a man who’s hard up.”

The crowd was quick to appreciate the repartee, and laughed with keen enjoyment.

“Take my horse and wash him down, and give him as much oats as he can eat,” said Varley; then he passed into the bank.

The manager was at the counter, and received him with a smile of fellowship and the air of respect which were always unquestioningly and freely accorded to Mr. Varley Howard.

“Give me a hundred and sixty pounds in gold—and quick!” said Varley.

The manager looked at him in surprise, but a little exclamation of Varley’s, scarcely a word, not much more than a breath, spurred the manager to haste. He counted out the gold and put it in a bag, which Varley consigned to his pocket. Then, with a “Thanks; hot, isn’t it?” he walked out. His reappearance was of course greeted with numerous offers to drink. Varley went to the nearest pub and tossed off a glass of whisky and water, then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it deliberately. His admirers watched him with curious and worshiping regard.

“Been killin’ any one, Varley, and want to provide for the widow?” asked one. “Where have you come from?”

“From Three Star,” said Varley, quietly. “I left there at two o’clock this morning.”

From any other man the assertion would have been received with incredulous amusement; but Varley’s word was always ever so much better than any other man’s bond, and the group stared at him with amazement. He finished his cigarette and sauntered out. Half an hour later he was mounted on his mare, who looked as if she had just come fresh from the stable after a week’s rest, and was going at an easy swing out of the embryo town.

As rider and horse were disappearing in a cloud of dust, the Ballarat coach drove in. The coachman—no other than Johnson, the phlegmatic—nodded toward the disappearing horseman, and, addressing a gentleman who sat beside him, remarked:

“There goes the best man we’ve got on show in these parts.” The gentleman to whom he spoke turned a somewhat pale and weary face to the coachman.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“Mr. Varley Howard,” answered Johnson.

Trafford, for it was he, started slightly.

“Varley Howard?” he repeated, mechanically.

“Yes,” said Johnson. “He’s just ridden in. He ain’t made much of a stay. I heard at the stables that there was some trouble at Three Star—something in which his ward, Esmeralda, was concerned.”

Trafford almost rose from his seat.

“Esmeralda!” he exclaimed, half unconsciously.

“Yes,” said Johnson. “It must be something to do with her, or you wouldn’t find Varley Howard moving at this rate. She came out with my coach six weeks ago or thereabouts. We was ‘put up’ by the Dog’s Ear men, and Varley saved us.”

“And Esmeralda—this lady?” asked Trafford, with a tightening of the lips.

“Oh, she was safe enough. Varley brought her down to the camp, and they gave her a reception that took the cake! What’s happened to her now, I don’t rightly know.”

Trafford leaned back and wiped his brow, and something like a groan escaped his lips. She was here, then!