But at that moment a voice, harmoniously pitched, was heard. The pianist was accompanied by a vocalist. The geographer listened incredulously, but in a few moments was forced to recognize the sublime air that struck upon his ear. It was “Il mio tesoro tanto” from Don Juan.
“Parbleu!” thought the geographer, “however strange the Australian birds may be, or even though the parrots were the most musical in the world, they could not sing Mozart.”
He listened to the end of this grand inspiration of the master. The effect of this sweet melody, in the stillness of the starlit night, was indescribable. He remained a long time under the influences of its enchantment. At last the voice ceased, and all was silent.
When Wilson came to relieve the geographer, he found him wrapt in a profound reverie. Paganel said nothing to the sailor, but, reserving his account of the incident for Glenarvan the next day, he crept into the tent.
In the morning the whole party were awakened by unexpected bayings. Glenarvan at once arose. Two magnificent pointers were gamboling along the edge of a small wood; but at the approach of the travelers they disappeared among the trees, barking loudly.
“There must be a station in this desert,” said Glenarvan, “and hunters, since those are hunting-dogs.”
Paganel was just about to relate his experiences of the past night, when two men appeared, in hunting costume, mounted on fine horses. They naturally stopped at sight of the little party, encamped in gypsy-like fashion, and seemed to be wondering what the presence of armed men in this place meant, when they perceived the ladies, who were alighting from the cart.
They immediately dismounted, and advanced towards them, hat in hand. Glenarvan went to meet them, and introduced himself and party, giving the name and rank of each member. The young men bowed, and one of them, the elder, said:
“My lord, will your ladies, your companions, and yourself do us the honor to accompany us to our house?”
“May I ask, gentlemen, whom I have the honor of addressing?” inquired Glenarvan.
“Michael and Alexander Patterson, proprietors of Hottam Station. You are already on the grounds of the establishment, and have but a quarter of a mile to go.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Glenarvan, “I should be unwilling to slight a hospitality so graciously offered—”
“My lord,” interrupted Michael Patterson, “by accepting you will confer a favor upon two poor colonists, who will be only too happy to extend to you the honors of the desert.”
Glenarvan bowed in token of assent.
“Sir,” said Paganel, addressing Michael Patterson, “should I be too inquisitive were I to ask if it was you who sang that divine air of Mozart last night?”
“It was I, sir,” replied the gentleman; “and my brother accompanied me.”
“Well, sir,” continued Paganel, extending his hand, “accept the sincere compliments of a Frenchman, who is an ardent admirer of Mozart’s music.”
The young man modestly returned the geographer’s greeting, and then pointed towards the right to the road they were to take. The horses had been confided to the care of Ayrton and the sailors, and the travelers at once betook themselves on foot to Hottam Station, under the guidance of the two young men.
It was a magnificent establishment, characterized by the perfect order of an English park. Immense meadows, enclosed by fences, extended as far as the eye could reach. Here grazed thousands of oxen and sheep. Numerous shepherds and still more numerous dogs tended this vast herd, while with the bellowing and bleating mingled the baying of mastiffs and the sharp crack of stock-whips.
To the east the prospect was broken by a border of gum-trees, beyond which rose the imposing peak of Mount Hottam, seven thousand five hundred feet high. Long avenues of tall trees stretched in all directions, while here and there stood dense clumps of grass-trees, shrubby plants about ten feet high, resembling the dwarf palm, with a thick foliage of long narrow leaves. The air was laden with the perfume of laurels, whose clusters of white flowers in full bloom exhaled the most delicate fragrance.
With the charming groups of native trees were mingled those transplanted from European climes. The peach, the pear, the apple, the fig, the orange, and even the oak were hailed with delight by the travelers, who, if they were not astonished at walking in the shade of the trees of their country, wondered, at least, at the sight of the birds that fluttered among the branches, the satin-birds with their silky plumage, and the canaries, clad in golden and black velvet.
Here, for the first time, they saw the menure, or lyrebird, whose tail has the form of the graceful instrument of Orpheus. As the bird fled away among the arborescent ferns, its tail striking the branches, they almost expected to hear those harmonious chords that helped Amphion to rebuild the walls of Thebes.
Lord Glenarvan was not satisfied with merely admiring the fairy wonders of this oasis of the Australian desert. He listened with profound interest to the young men’s story. In England, in the heart of civilization, a newcomer would have first informed his host whence he came and whither he was going; but here, by a nice shade of distinction, Michael and Sandy Patterson thought they should make themselves known to the travelers to whom they offered their hospitalities, and briefly told their story.
It was like that of all intelligent and active young Englishmen, who do not believe that the possession of riches absolves from the responsibility to labor for the welfare of others. Michael and Alexander Patterson were the sons of a London banker. When they were twenty years old, their father had said: “Here is money, my sons. Go to some distant land, found there a useful establishment, and acquire in labor the knowledge of life. If you succeed, so much the better; if you fail, it matters little. We shall not regret
