About the year ’43 there had lived for a long period in the little hamlet of Burley, in the New Forest, a clan of gipsies of the name of Stanley. Sampson, the head of the tribe, had commenced life as a knife-grinder, and by tramping the Forest summer and winter, and plying his trade in the neighbouring parishes, had collected sufficient funds to purchase a good van, an old horse, and some donkeys.

He was also known, in the Forest phraseology, as a “terrible” good man with an axe, and in those days of wooden ships there was plenty of timber to be hewn.

So Sampson always found enough to do when he chose to exert himself, but he infinitely preferred going out with the keepers after deer, and these men were not sorry for his company, for he was a wonderful tracker, and could follow up a wounded buck almost like a hound.

Though nearly fifty years of age, Sampson could still hold his own at most of the sports that took place annually in the neighbourhood. His fleetness of foot was remarkable, and though occasionally beaten by younger men whilst racing, at wrestling he had never yet found his match; and so good was he in his own county of Hampshire, that one or two of the squires proposed to send him up to London to meet some of the famous north-country men who gathered there once every year to exhibit their prowess; but when they suggested this, Sampson remarked that he was “afeard he shouldn’t do no credit to the money as they proposed to lay out on him; reckoned he warn’t man enough for them north-country folk, as knew tricks he’d never larnt, but that if any of the zquires liked to get a chimpion down to t’vorest, he’d ’av a turn with ’im.”

Sampson’s appearance denoted that of an athletic wild man of the woods.

Over six feet in height, straight as a spear, a spare figure with but little flesh on him, the muscles of arms and legs showed prominently through his buckskin jacket and breeches, whilst his dark brown eyes gleamed out from under a rabbit-skin cap; eyes that took in everything around him, and were only still when fixed with a steady gaze upon the face of any one addressing him.

Such was Sampson, the gipsy, a man who spoke little, but thought much upon matters connected with his means of livelihood.

Some years before this story opens Sampson had married the daughter of one of the small forest “squatters,” a hard-working, merry-eyed woman, who owned but little gipsy blood in her veins. She had not had much “schooling” herself, but for this very reason determined to do her best for the children born to her, and, with the help of an old schoolmaster, these were taught to read and write, and learned the elements of arithmetic.

At the period of which we write there was no church in the district of Burley, but Sampson’s wife read to her children, though with difficulty, every Sunday out of her Bible, and explained what she read. She taught them to say their prayers at her knee before going to bed in the great van. Her system was not to have the young ones’ heads crammed with much learning, but, following the advice of the old schoolmaster, to “ground” them well.

Besides this careful supervision of her children, her gentle counsels often influenced her husband, and other men of the tribe, for the better, when sometimes they were inclined to challenge the forest laws, or to throw away their money by “getting on the spree;” so that the neighbours round about came to say of the tribe, “They’re a bit ‘sobererer’ since old Sampson married.”

Two sons were born to Sampson and his wife, twins—named “Mat” and “Tim”—and a daughter.

It is with Mat that our story chiefly deals.

Always recognized as the eldest, and at this time still in his teens, Mat Stanley closely resembled his father in many respects, and from having accompanied him for some years on his various expeditions he was intimately acquainted with the Forest, its woods and glades. No one knew better than he the haunts of the deer and blackgame, and he alone of all the Forest youths could climb the gigantic beeches of “Vinney Ridge” to rob the herons’ nests.

Mat could also hold his own very fairly at both boxing and wrestling with far bigger lads than himself.

Besides these achievements he made small sums now and again by breaking-in forest colts, and otherwise helping the squatters with their cattle. By nature he was always ready to help any one, who through misfortune or physical cause was not able to help himself; though possessed of a quick temper, he was never anxious to pick a quarrel, but when one was forced upon him, ready to show of what determined stuff he was made.

“Tim,” the brother, was of a more retiring disposition, by reason of his health. His constitution not being so robust, and suffering as he did sometimes acutely from rheumatism, he was not calculated either to join in the active pursuits of Mat, or accompany him or his father during their expeditions; but he stayed at the camp, where he proved useful in helping his mother and others of his tribe in looking after the animals and pitching tents, though when the proper season arrived he took his share at cutting and “rinding” timber.

The sister, Ruth, also assisted her mother in cooking, washing, and other details of camp life.

Having thus shortly described the family, we must not omit to mention the guard of the camp, a long-legged, bob-tailed, powerful, rough-coated lurcher, named “Jumper.”

As a pup he had been brought up to mind his master’s grinding-machine and tools, and his chief duty he thoroughly understood from that time, namely, never to allow a stranger to approach any property belonging to the gipsies; moreover, he would fetch in the donkeys and horse unaided, and on many occasions proved his speed by running down a wounded deer.

Just previous to the time we are writing of, Mat had made the acquaintance of a young stranger, who was shooting in the forest, and this is how it came about.

Early one morning in the month of October, Mat was looking for a colt which he had partly broken in, when his attention was arrested by a shot immediately outside the enclosure he was searching. Ever alive to the chance of sport, he ran through the intervening trees, and discovered a young man dressed in a new and rather gaudy sporting costume, who was engaged in searching a small bog with a setter.

Seeing Mat, the stranger accosted him somewhat imperiously with,—

“Come here, youngster, and find this snipe I’ve shot, look sharp.”

“Not till I’ve found a colt I’ve lost,” responded Mat, who did not appreciate this off-hand command.

“Do you know who I am?” demanded the stranger, standing up.

“No, and don’t care; however, if you’ll speak civil, I’ll give you a hand.”

And not waiting for further remarks, Mat vaulted over the rails of the enclosure, and very soon pointed out the wing of the snipe protruding from a puddle, into which the bird had been trodden by the foot of the gunner.

“Now,” said the latter, pleased with this quick find, “will you beat for me homewards to Lyndhurst?”

“I don’t mind,” answered the gipsy, “if you will come into this enclosure first, and help me to find my colt.”

“Very well, as I’m a stranger in this forest, I shall be rather curious to see how you find a pony in that thick wood.”

So they stepped in, and Mat went back to the spot where the animal had effected an entrance over a broken part of the fence, saying,—

“This ’ere colt’s been lost for the best part of three days, and I’m a bit upset about him, as he’s about as good a one as I’ve ever handled.”

“Oh! then you’re a horse-breaker?” remarked the stranger.

“Yes, and employed finding lost cattle too, as I know t’vorest; I was born not far from where we are now.”

Thus speaking, Mat took up the animal’s tracks, and strode swiftly through the underwood, carrying a small axe in his hand. This tracking was all new to the stranger, who could only admire the dexterity with which his companion kept the trail, taking no heed of numerous other tracks, which led off in various directions; these, as Mat explained subsequently, belonging to ponies whose feet were shod.

The colt had pursued a very zigzag course in his efforts to find food amongst the dry “sedge.”

In an hour’s time the searchers came to a deep dyke overgrown with heather.

“I was afeard so,” muttered Mat, as he pointed to a spot where the animal had fallen into the ditch, and a few hundred yards further on they found the poor colt standing benumbed, with his coat all staring, at the bottom of the drain.

By great efforts they induced him to walk along till the banks became less steep, and here, with his axe, Mat levelled a bit of the edge of the drain, cut down some saplings and furze, and so built a temporary roadway, up which they managed at length to push and drag the exhausted beast.

“Good work,” said the stranger, as he and Mat sat down for an instant to recover their wind. “This part of the business I understand, at all events,” and taking a flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured the contents down the throat of the colt.

They then made him up a bed of “sedge,” and cutting a quantity of the best herbage they could find, placed it under his nose, and left him lying comfortably down; Mat observing that he looked brighter, and that he hoped “to get him home afore night.”

This incident occurred in Boldre Wood, and as the day was getting on, the stranger said,—

“Take a straight line to Lyndhurst, and we’ll get something to eat and then go out again.”

Mat acquiesced, and, leading the way through Mark Ash, brought his new acquaintance in an hour’s time to Braken Lodge, outside Lyndhurst.

It is now time to introduce the stranger.

His name was “Stephen Burns.”

Three months only had elapsed since he was pursuing his studies, or rather, perhaps, his sporting instincts, at Oxford, when he was suddenly summoned home to Braken Lodge, the paternal seat.

His father had long been ailing, but the end came suddenly, and Stephen was only just in time to see him before he died, and to find himself an orphan, having lost his mother during his infancy, and alone in the world, at all events the civilized world, for his only relative, an elder brother, had emigrated to Australia some years previous to this.

Braken Lodge he hardly looked upon as home, for he had left it early for a preparatory school, and his father, whose sole aim and interest in life consisted of betting and racing, was rather relieved to get his two sons comfortably disposed of, that he might the better indulge his favourite pursuits, which he continued until he left the estate heavily mortgaged, as Stephen found when he returned to the Forest.

When Burns arrived at the lodge, piloted by Mat, he showed the latter into a dilapidated smoking-room, where he told him to make himself at home, whilst he sought the housekeeper, and bidding her take in some refreshments, followed her into the room, then seating himself, he prepared to learn more of the independent young Forester. With that end in view, he remarked, “We have not much time to spare, either for eating or talking, but, by-the-bye, what’s your name, and where do you live?”

“My name’s Mat Stanley,” was the answer, “and we’re camped down to Wootton.”

“Oh! gipsies, that’s a free life, any way.”

“Yes, pretty well, but I zeem to want a freer one.”

“More liberty than gipsies have?” returned Burns, “why, how do you mean?”

“Do you know Squire Bell?” continued Mat. “No? well, he lives t’other zide of Wootton, been all his life forrin—in Australia—and he says as I should get on there well. He gave me two books, which I carries about with me, they’re all about Australia, and I know ’em pretty nigh by heart. I’ve had the whole run of his library and museum, and bin over ’em times without number. And Joe Broomfield, that’s he as the colt belongs to, he’s got a brother out there whot’s getting 1l. for every colt as he breaks in, and plenty of grub found him besides. Fact is, I’d like to go out if I had the money.”

The subject evidently appeared to excite the otherwise taciturn gipsy, and kindled a certain amount of enthusiasm in Burns, who, however, responded,—

“What, go and leave all your tribe, and live in the Bush amongst black fellows?”

“Oh! I don’t mind leaving my tribe, I might zee ’em again some day, and then they’re a-going to make new laws here, and not let gipsies camp in one place more’n a few days together. I’d like to get away, and the squire he says I shall, only I want to work a bit of money together first to pay my passage out.”

We must now digress a little; the squire that was alluded to in the last chapter, was no British squire at all, but born and bred a colonial. In earlier days he was known as one of the wool kings of Australia, and his “brand” was still to the fore in the home markets. In his native district of “Liverpool Plains,” he was always spoken of and recognized as “the Squire,” a title given him solely on account of his personal appearance. In later years he had taken up additional country to the north of the “Plains,” and a young man who went from England to join him in this new country thus described him in a letter home:—

“Bell calls himself a native, but I don’t believe it, there’s no ‘cornstalk’ look about him; everyone out here refers to him as ‘the Squire,’ and truth to tell he is just like old Squire Mangles, of Greenmount, same red face, hearty laugh, breeches, drab gaiters and all.”

The “Squire,” then, having made a considerable fortune in wool, left an agent to look after the property, came home, and settled down with wife, son, and daughter, in the New Forest; but arriving there, he soon found that it would take ten years or more before the Forest aristocracy were likely to notice him or his wool-sacks; in fact, a candid Irish friend, an old resident, told him that unless he had a handle to his name, they would not notice him at all, but added, “If ye had, me boy, they’d just jostle ye.” To which the squire replied that he did not want to be either jostled or slighted, and that he thought that anyhow, “before he suffered from either the coldness of English society or that of another British winter, he had better get back to his own country.”

During the period that he had been in Hampshire, he had interested himself much concerning the Forest and its breed of ponies, and in this way had come into contact with Mat. He took a great interest in the young man, even to the extent of permitting him to take lessons with his son’s tutor, besides interesting himself in the lad’s general career; and Mat, who had always had a craving for improving his mind, proved himself a ready and apt pupil.

Though this conduct on the part of Bell in taking up young Mat, and admitting him to his home circle, may seem at first sight strange, and indeed, as the squire observed, “It put the dead finish on to the neighbouring gentry,” yet it must be borne in mind that he had little in common with English habits and customs. Those who knew Australia in the early days, before the Victorian gold-rush, and long after that period, will remember that it was not at all uncommon for a man who had just taken up country, not only to be thrown into the society of all sorts, but for him and his family to live with the station hands all together, both in tent-life and afterwards when the station was formed, sitting down to the same table and sleeping under the same roof together, it being a rare exception when these same “hands” did not act and behave as gentlemen, when properly treated.

The squire, though he did not take Mat for a gentleman bred and born, yet saw, on making his further acquaintance, that he was one by nature; and this was sufficient for Bell, who had had so much experience amongst the same class of people. As he said,—

“Mat doesn’t speak the best English, but he doesn’t mind my teaching him, and it’s a real pleasure; he’s so quick at picking anything up.”

And Mat found that his tasks were to his liking. What pleased him most was the fact that he could give a return, in many little ways, for the kindness shown him. One of his chief delights was teaching Master Tom, the squire’s son, how to ride, and also to shoot,—tramping through the forest, and beating up the game for him.

One day Mat and Tom were engaged in this way, when the latter, having been wanted at home earlier than usual, Annie, his sister, was sent after them on her pony. Having found them, she delivered her message, and galloped home again.

Mat, coming in the back way soon afterwards, happened to meet the gardener, who was a great friend of his, with a book in his hand, walking towards his cottage.

“What book is that?” asked Mat.

“‘Robinson Crusoe,’” answered the man.

“Why, that’s the very book Master Tom told me to get and read; I wish you’d lend it me.”

“I can’t,” answered the gardener, “it belongs to Miss Annie, and she wants it back.”

“Oh! well, then, never mind,” answered Mat, as he passed into the gun-room with the game-bag.

A few minutes later a young girl flew quickly into the room, and as rapidly said in a breath,—

“Here, Jim says you want to borrow this book; it’s mine; I’ll give it you; you’re so nice to Tom. I’ve written your name in it to show it’s your very own. I’ll lend Jim another some day.”

Mat had only time to take off his cap and say, “Thank you, miss,” blushing to his ears as he took the book, when the fair young apparition was gone.

On recounting the circumstance to Tim afterwards, he said that he could “only remember a girl out of breath, with eyes like a fawn, a complexion like a rose, and hair all down her back, which was just the colour of the tail of old Broomfield’s colt—the foxy one—and she came and went a’most afore I could zay ‘knife.’”

“Well, she warn’t a beauty, then?” remarked Tim.

“Why, p’raps not, ’zactly; but I was that took aback I couldn’t see, but you’ve no call to say she’s ugly.”

“I didn’t,” retorted Tim, “only you said her hair was the colour of Broomfield’s colt.”

An old resident of the forest, a Mrs. Taplow, who, up to this time had been doubting whether she should call on Mrs. Bell, and being reminded by one of her neighbours that she had at length promised to go the first fine day with the Miss Taplows, answered decidedly,—

“No, I have now quite made up my mind; I don’t know, and I do not want to know, these Australians; he lets his son go about all day with a common forest gipsy, and she sends this same gipsy books and messages by her daughter; of course, the poor girl, never having been in England before, knows no better. Fancy! dear Jane and Bella consorting with the vulgar herd; yes, look in the dictionary—‘vulgar crowd;’ Walker describes them exactly.”

“Ah! the Forest is not like it was when I was a girl,” broke in Bella (aged 40).

And then the two Miss Taplows lifted up their noses, and sniffed scornfully.

We will now return to Burns’ smoking-room, where we left the two young men discussing emigration.

“It is curious,” said Burns, in answer to Mat’s remarks concerning the colonies, “that you should get on this subject, for I know something of Australia from my brother, who has been for a few years in New South Wales, and that very map hanging there came from him last mail; he sent it to show the boundaries of the new colony called Queensland, in which his station will shortly be included. A ship named the Young Austral sails in a day or two from London to Moreton Bay. I daresay that if you are in the same mind next trip, I could help you about the passage. I know the skipper, and he is taking out a heap of things to my brother for me. But now let us be off; I would like to get back to the enclosure you called ‘Boldre Wood;’ there must be cock there.”

To Boldre Wood they then proceeded, and, striking into a thicket of hollies, Mat proceeded to beat, with the result of putting up several woodcock, which either flew the wrong side of the bushes for Burns, or which he missed. Though usually a fair shot, this snap-shooting in dense hollies was new to him; so, getting tired of missing, and the light being worse here than in the open, he called to Mat, and stepped out on to a furzy plain. No sooner were they in it than up sprang a doe from her seat. Burns threw up his gun, and, in spite of the cries of Mat, rolled her over with a charge of shot in the head.

“What the ‘limb’s’ to be done now?” quoth Mat, as he hurried up to the fallen beast, at the same time casting a glance behind him. “My eye! it is a keeper. I zee’d zome one just as you throwed up yer gun.”

Burns, looking in the direction towards which his companion was gazing, saw a man hurrying up from the hollies which they had just quitted.

Instantly the gipsy gripped his companion by the arm, saying, “It’s writ down felony to kill a deer, two years at least, quick! You go that way, right through the enclosure on to the Lyndhurst road. Give I the gun, and he’ll take after me.” Then grasping the gun, and giving Burns a push that nearly sent him on to his face, Mat was gone.

“What a fuss about a deer,” thought Burns, as he plunged into the thicket; “but I suppose the gipsy’s right, though if I did not see honesty written on his face, I should have thought it a dodge to clear off with my gun.”

Meanwhile the keeper, seeing Mat disappearing with the gun, shouted to him to stop; but as no heed was paid to this summons, he started off at a run to seize him. Mat no sooner perceived his intention than he bounded into the hollies, and by doubling and dodging tried to throw his pursuer off, but the latter was just as active as he was, and drove him right through the thicket into the old beeches beyond, and through them again on to a plain; and here commenced a terrific race; but it was soon evident to Mat that he had met his match, for being handicapped with the gun and bag of Burns, neither of which would he part with, he felt that the keeper was gaining upon him.

“If I can only get over the Bratley Brook I’ll do him yet,” thought Mat, who was getting his second wind, as he put on a spurt down the hill; but, alas for his hopes! the brook was swollen by the recent heavy rains, and as he rose to take the leap his pursuer was close behind him. The opposite bank came down with him as he lit full and fair upon it; he had just time to throw the gun on to the land as he fell backwards into the water. At the same instant the keeper’s arms encircled his neck, for the latter had, on seeing Mat’s mishap, jumped up to his middle in the brook, and seized him with “Now then, my lad, if you fight, down you go.”

Mat, who was half-drowned, and woefully out of breath, choked out, “I’ve saved the gun so far, any way; and be hanged to you.”

“Have you, then, my young poacher?” returned the keeper. “I’ve got it, and you too; and if you don’t go quietly, and without any ‘sarce,’ maybe you’ll get the contents of the weapon. I’ve got one on yer, at any rate. Who was yer mate?” A question to which Mat did not vouchsafe any answer.

“Never mind; we’ll soon find out, after I’ve changed my things at the cottage, and when you go to Lyndhurst with me on a charge of killing deer, I knows where the beast lays, and, hullo!” he cried, as he examined the weapon, “stealing a gun, too; for I’ll swear this ‘Manton’ never belonged to you.”

Seeing that the game was up for the present, Mat stalked moodily along in front of his captor to Boldre Cottage.

Arriving there, the keeper locked him in a back room, telling him that he might jump out of the window if he liked; but that the bloodhound, who had already about killed a former poacher, would make short work of him if he did; adding, in a sneering tone, that he would take care of the gun and bag, and all that it contained.

Mat was now left to his own reflections, which were not of the pleasantest.

Drenched to the skin, he paced the room for the best part of an hour, to keep himself warm, revolving in his mind all manner of means of escape, but only with the gun. He had just concluded that if only the keeper would leave the house for a few minutes, he would have a chance, because, he argued, he must think I’m a greenhorn to fear the dog. Why, he ain’t even loose. I se’ed him chained in the shed, a fine-looking beast too, and keeper he’ll—But here his meditations were interrupted by a noise which sounded like the clinking of a glass, and applying his eye to a chink in the logs, he saw his captor with his legs stretched out before a turf fire, filling a glass from Burns’ flask, which he had appropriated from the game-bag.

Mat could scarcely suppress his joy on witnessing this sight. He now remembered that Burns had refilled his flask at the Lodge with old whisky.

“Drink away, my fine fellow,” he almost whispered; “drink away; that’s not public-house tipple. I know the strength of that whisky, as I drank Burns’ health with it.” And then he softly resumed his walk.

It was now quite dark, and shortly again applying his ear to the logs, he could hear the keeper’s steady snore.

Now or never was his time. So cautiously getting out of the window, Mat crept round to the front door, taking care to go round the building on the side opposite to the shed of the bloodhound. In the porch he saw the shimmer reflected on the barrels of Burns’ gun, and might then have made straight off with it; but “No,” he said to himself, “keeper didn’t ax me if I’d like a drop, after all my hard work, so I’ll just help myself.”

Gently opening the door, he dropped on his hands and knees, and guided by the heavy breathing of the keeper, who was now in a drunken sleep, he approached that worthy, reared himself up to the table, found the flask, slipped it into his pocket, felt that the keeper was sitting on the empty game-bag, so left it to keep that worthy man warm, retreated as silently to the porch where he had left the gun, and picking it up, he got clear out without disturbing man or dog, and with long strides made off in the direction of Vinney Ridge, and in little over an hour’s time was taking a breather under his old friends, the great trees of the herons. Throwing himself down at full length, he pulled the flask from his pocket, and was just finding fault with the greediness of the keeper for having drunk so much of its contents, when in the far distance he distinctly heard the baying of a hound!

“So soon!” angrily exclaimed Mat, as he jumped up. “Lucky it’s a still night; but I’ve almost ‘drove it off’ too long. However, here’s my health, and good luck,” as he applied the flask to his lips. “Now for the stream, and the scheme, which I’ve been planning!”

In two minutes he was down to the river, and, knowing every inch of the ground, quickly found the object of his search. This was a rude bridge, formed of a couple of saplings, which spanned the swollen stream. This he crossed, and, from the opposite side, threw the logs in, when they were quickly carried away by the current. He then cut down a very thin, whippy, seedling oak, and twisted it round and round until he had a supple rope strong enough to hold an unbroken colt; then, ensconcing himself behind a bush, he awaited events.

For the first time Mat felt a bit nervous—nervous as to the approaching contest, which he knew now to be inevitable; and nervous in that his body had been for hours in wet clothes. He could hardly bear the tremendous strain of waiting. The tension was almost overpowering, for he was aware that he had to deal with one of the fiercest of the fierce breed of bloodhounds lately imported into the forest.

Nearer and nearer came the bell-like notes of the hound, now apparently dying away, then again breaking out into a deep roar, as the intervening timber shut out the sounds or let them be heard again. At last a most appalling roar, which seemed to Mat to thunder into his very ear, told where the animal had come on to his resting-place on the ridge, and then all was silent.

Mat took another little refresher from the flask, and had hardly replaced it on the ground beside him when the great hound burst into sight in the moonlight. “That’s a bit of luck,” thought Mat, as the clouds cleared away, and allowed him to see the animal’s movements.

Coming to the water’s edge, the beast quested up and down, and then, throwing his head up with another roar—of satisfaction, as it sounded to Mat—prepared to spring into the river exactly opposite to where his would-be prey was watching.

At this moment the hound was completely at Mat’s mercy; our forester could have blown his head to atoms with the gun which was lying loaded by his side, but no such thought crossed his mind. On the contrary, his one idea for a brief second was, “What a noble beast!”

The next moment the animal plunged into the stream; but, before it could rise to the surface, Mat, holding his rope in his teeth, with a lightning-like bound was on to him, and, seizing the dog’s huge throat, at first endeavoured to keep him under water, but the animal, though taken at a disadvantage and half-choked, fought so with its muscular paws that it knocked Mat off his legs, and, as he lay for a second underneath, made a grab at his throat. Had he secured his grip, then and there would our gipsy’s life have ended; but Mat was too quick for him, by plunging his head under water. The beast thus lost sight of this most vulnerable part of his foe, but gripped him instead through his buskins and deep into his thigh. Mat felt during this terrible struggle that his only chance of life was getting into deeper water. The pain of the bloodhound’s teeth was excruciating; but, securing a grasp of the loose skin of the dog’s throat, he never let go, only struggled with his free leg to get into deeper water. Thus locked in a deadly embrace, man and hound rolled down stream. At length, by a lucky touch of his foot on the bottom, Mat got uppermost, and by keeping his full weight on the dog, caused it at last to open its jaws for a gasp. Had not the water rushed into that gaping chasm of teeth, Mat’s chance would still have been small; but, excited now to frenzy, and watching eagerly for the chance, he, by a quick movement, bitted the animal with the rope, which he had held on to with his teeth as if it had been the rope of a life-buoy, and as quickly took a half-turn round the lower jaw, over the upper, and had time to make all fast before the hound had sufficiently recovered to prevent him. Then Mat crawled exhausted out of the water and lay motionless, hardly caring whether the animal followed him or not, so faint did he feel from loss of blood. But the beast came after him, and, striking savagely with its heavy fore-feet, caused him to get up once more. However, finding it could not use its teeth, it acknowledged Mat as master for the time being, and made no further attempt at fighting; but giving a shake, and with a last ferocious glare out of its bloodshot eyes, turned and trotted sullenly off into the moonlit glades.

Mat felt it an immense relief to hear his own voice, as he said in a low tone, “Well, thank God, I’m out of that business! He’s tied up like a ferret, and every knot is good. He’d have killed me if we’d fought on the shore, that’s certain. The Bratley stream served me a dirty trick a few hours ago, but the Blackwater saved my life this night.” Pulling off his cotton handkerchief, he bound up the wound in his thigh tightly, emptied his flask, and limped off at once before his leg should get stiffer than it was, and to make good his way to Lyndhurst ere the hound should have returned to the keeper, whom he surmised had only been prevented from coming up to help his hound by being too “boosy” to make his way quickly over the rough ground.

“He, by a quick movement, bitted the animal with the rope.”

At length, shortly after midnight, as far as he could judge by the moon, Mat arrived once again at Braken Lodge, and knocked up Burns, who, though astonished to see him at that hour, immediately routed out the old housekeeper to light a fire, brew some coffee, and get provisions, whilst he found a change of clothes for Mat, and bound up his wound with a healing ointment. And all these things he did without asking our gipsy any useless questions, wherein he showed his sense.

After Mat had thoroughly refreshed himself, he said,—

“Now, Mr. Burns, I’ll just stretch out afore the fire—that’ll ease my limb—and tell you all about it.”

He then related shortly but accurately every detail from the time of their parting in Boldre Wood down to the termination of his fight with the hound, adding that he was very sorry for the loss of the game-bag, which Burns said did not matter a snuff.

“Perhaps not for itself,” continued Mat, “but they might trace you by it.”

Burns listened with intense interest to the narrative, and remarked,—

“I should have shot that hound, I know I should; but then, you see, I would not have thought of that dodge of yours of tying him up; besides, I could not have done it, I’m not so quick and handy.”

“And now,” went on Mat, “I’ll ask you a favour: help me to get away in that ship you spoke of this very night, and the matter’ll blow over, for they can’t really prove anything ’gin you.”

Burns looked at his watch; then pondered awhile over this suggestion. At last, after several vigorous puffs at a black clay pipe which he was smoking, he spoke:—

“It would be a very mean trick to send you out of England because I have broken the law—for I find it’s true what you said,—were it not that a few hours ago, before all this happened, you were wishing to be off as soon as you could earn some money. Now promise, if I help you to start, never to go back on me by saying, when you find what a hard life it is out there, ‘If it had not been for Burns I might have been home now.’”

“Yes, I promise,” answered Mat eagerly.