III.

More than a year passed before I again met my enemy face to face. For me it was a year of much solitude; a time of dull, daily work, and of constant brooding over the same bitter, never-to-be-forgotten humiliation. It was not remorse, but the shame of exposure, and still above that—of defeat. Why should I feel remorse? I argued. What had I done page 33 but fight Thompson with his own weapons? He was stronger and more cunning; so I had been worsted. He was rich, and I was poor; was not the law always for the rich and against the poor? He was respected and I was disgraced! Pah! what did that matter? Did not men always cringe to the strong, and forsake the beaten? I would defy them all, and hold up my head in spite of them.

So, looking neither to the right nor the left, I walked, one autumn jay, through a group of loafers, into the little public house of the township nearest to my farm, and sat down at the common dinner table. No one took a seat within several feet of me. Thompson, at the other end of the table, was surrounded by a dozen obsequious acquaintances, laughing and talking loudly. They had evidently been talking, and were ordering their food. Thompson, raising his voice, ordered "sheep's head." There was a titter. Coolly turning to the landlord, he asked whether they cooked the ears of his sheep with the rest of the head. His own roar of coarse laughter followed this exquisite sally, and half-a-dozen faces were turned in my direction. Choking with rage, I glared at Thompson in silent fury. What would I have given to have my hand on his throat!

Though my head was whirling, and there was a singing in my ears, I managed to swallow some mouthfuls of food, washed down with spirits and water. As in a dream, I heard, without listening, the talk it the other end of the table. Presently, something said by Thompson faced itself upon my attention. He was explaining to some intending visitor to his station that he would not be there that night as his servants were leaving him, and he had to drive the man and woman some twenty miles or more to a railway station. Riding home alone, I thought over these words. In a purposeless, stupid sort of fashion they repeated themselves in my brain, simply because they were the last words I had heard my enemy utter. Then I thought of his brutal jest, and clenched my right hand till the nails pierced the skin of the palm. Oh, that the days of duelling had not gone by! Oh, that I had him there in front of me in that lonely valley! Oh, for anything to give me vengeance on my enemy! I felt I could have ridden over to is house that night, and shot him on his own door-step. But, no; of course he would be many miles away that night,

Suddenly, a thought struck me. To be hung for killing such an old ruffian would be cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. Here was a safer way of paying the first instalment of my debt. Why not tide over at midnight, and put a match into his deserted house? It would burn, wretched, rotten, tinder-box that it was; and since fere was a hill between it and the homestead, would burn unseen, and be a heap of ashes when Thompson returned next day—the first man to find it. A paltry vengeance, perhaps, but only the first instalment of the debt—only the first instalment. More should follow with God's help or the devil's; I cared not which. True, twenty-five long Biles lay between me and the house; so much the better, it would avert suspicion. A good horse could do the journey, and I had a good horse. That lean, wiry, old Australian, famous as a roadster, famous page 34 after cattle, famous for having bucked off the best rough rider in the country—he should do me service that night. How Thompson's mean, miserable, penurious soul would writhe on the morrow. Better a thousand times hurt his pocket than injure him in life or limb. He would rather lose a limb than have to re-build a house.

All the evening I brooded over Thompson's savage triumph and boorish insult, upon the cluster of friends around him, and upon my deserted loneliness. I was an Ishmaelite, every man's hand was against me. So be it. One man, at least, should feel my hand in return. Therefore, after purposely speaking to my shepherd the last thing that night, and slamming my own bedroom door loudly as I pretended to retire, I waited, like a caged animal, for midnight. Then, slipping quietly out with saddle and bridle, I went down to the paddock where "Merryjig" was, led him on foot for a quarter of a mile, till we were out of hearing, then off we went. The brisk motion of the canter and the cool night air roused me and steeled my courage. At half-past two, I was outside the plantation round Thompson's house. Half-a-dozen dogs barked furiously, but no human shout followed, no light appeared. Plainly the house was empty. Riding straight up to the front door, I hammered at it with my hunting crop. If anyone appeared, I had decided to ask for Thompson. No one came; that settled it. It was late autumn; dead leaves and dry twigs and grass were all around. I had some rag and paper in ml pockets, and a flask of kerosene. Fastening the horse securely, I raised an inflammable pile against the door. Without a moment's hesitation, without a twinge of compunction or fear, without one thrill of premonition I lit the flame, fanned it, and stood back to watch it take a fair hold of the woodwork. How I feasted my eyes on the sight, as I saw the thin blue and yellow tongues and streaks of flame, after licking the wall again and again, at length seize upon it for their own. How I walked up, and deliberately warmed my hands at the blaze, and muttered some mad words of speeding and encouragement. Hurrah! the wall was ablaze up to the second story. The flames crawled about the verandah roof; the front door was blazing, and the fire was gaining hold of the interior. Good fire! Brave fire! Goodbye. Hurrah for Thompson's welcome home to-morrow!

Waving my hand insanely, I flung myself into the saddle carelessly and heavily, and gave the horse a cut with the hunting-crop. Knowing him as I did, nothing but the half-delirious state I was in could have made me treat him in this way. "Merryjig" was notoriously a ticklish animal to mount, and, if handled in aught but the lightest and most delicate fashion, was certain to fiercely resent it. He did so now. In an instant, before I could bring the bit to bear, he plunged his head! furiously between his fore legs, arched his back like a wild cat and with a frantic, writhing jump, and contortion of his whole body, sen saddle and rider flying on to the ground. Half-stunned, I struggled to rise on hands and knees. Something had gone wrong. Lifting my head and shoulders, everything swam round; the moon-lit night became dark; a heavy hand seemed to press on my throat and chest, page 35 and hold me down to the ground. I remember being violently sick, I remember wondering whether the hand holding me down was death, and then for some moments I became unconscious.

Noises awoke me. The house was burning bravely amid the incessant barking of the chained dogs. The fire was up to the roof on come side. Soon it would be a beacon, near which I must not stay. Where is the horse? There, quietly grazing, not twenty paces away. I must mount somehow, and be off without a moment's loss. I try to move. Is every bone in my body broken? One of my legs is a useless trailing weight, and every movement racks me from bead to foot. Nevertheless, I must move. Setting my teeth, I drag myself with infinite agony a few paces. The horse, frightened at being thus approached, snorts with fear, bounds, and is off.

Then I knew what is felt by the trapped wild beast, as he waits for the trapper's coming. I was caught—caught by a snare of my own making. A moment's stupidity had ruined all. Yet even this was not the worst; a more awful horror was to come upon me, as I lay helpless. For now, from the burning house, came shriek upon shriek—shcrieks of wild, incoherent terror, like the voice of a woman face to face with imminent death in its most agonising and terrible form. Form a side window in the upper story some glass fell shattered, and a human arm protruded, waving frantically. That was all I saw—noting more. No face to haunt me for ever with its ghastly agonies. Only this poor and feeble arm and hand waving for succour. In gain I shouted again and again; in vain I begged and implored the unseen victim to go down the stairs while there was yet time; to make a rope of her bed-clothing; to fling herself boldly out; to do anything—not stay there! In vain! In vain! The flames roared and crackled and devoured amid the barking and howling of the dogs, and still the poor, helpless arm waved, and still the voice rang in my ears, with cry on cry, and scream on scream of mortal fear. God be my witness, I tried to drag myself to the burning building, but the pain and sickness were overpowering; body and mind yielded to it, and I swooned away.

When I came to, the flames were still roaring, but the shrieks had leased.