The major’s explanation was accepted as conclusive.
“Now,” replied Glenarvan, “will you tell me how and why Harry Grant’s quartermaster is in Australia?”
“How, I do not know,” said MacNabb; “and the police declare they know no more than I on the subject. Why, it is also impossible for me to say. Here is a mystery that the future will explain.”
“The police do not even know the identity of Ayrton and Ben Joyce,” said Captain Mangles.
“You are right, John,” replied the major; “and such information would be likely to facilitate their search.”
“This unfortunate, then,” remarked Lady Helena, “intruded into O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intention?”
“There is no doubt of it,” continued MacNabb. “He was meditating some hostile attack upon the Irishman, when a better opportunity was offered. Chance threw us in his way. He heard Glenarvan’s story of the shipwreck, and, like a bold man, he promptly decided to take part in the expedition. At the Wimerra he communicated with one of his friends, the farrier of Black Point, and thus left distinguishable traces of our course. His band followed us. A poisonous plant enabled him to gradually kill our oxen and horses. Then, at the proper moment, he entangled us in the marshes of the Snowy, and surrendered us to the convicts he commanded.”
Everything possible had been said concerning Ben Joyce. His past had just been reviewed by the major, and the wretch appeared as he was—a bold and formidable criminal. His intentions had been clearly proved, and required, on the part of Glenarvan, extreme vigilance. Fortunately, there was less to fear from the detected bandit than the secret traitor.
But one serious fact appeared from this explanation. No one had yet thought of it; only Mary Grant, disregarding the past, looked forward to the future. Captain Mangles first saw her pale and disconsolate. He understood what was passing in her mind.
“Miss Mary!” cried he, “you are weeping!”
“What is the matter, my child?” asked Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the young girl.
She could not continue. But a sudden revelation dawned on the mind of each. They comprehended Mary’s grief, why the tears flowed from her eyes, why the name of her father rose to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery destroyed all hope. The convict, to entice Glenarvan on, had invented a shipwreck. In their conversation, overheard by MacNabb, his accomplices had clearly confessed it. The Britannia had never been wrecked on the reefs of Twofold Bay! Harry Grant had never set foot on the Australian continent!
For the second time an erroneous interpretation of the document had set the searchers of the Britannia on a false trail. All, in the face of this situation and the grief of the two children, preserved a mournful silence. Who then could have found words of hope? Robert wept in his sister’s arms. Paganel murmured, in a voice of despair—
“Ah, unlucky document! You can boast of having sorely puzzled the brains of a dozen brave people!”
And the worthy geographer was fairly furious against himself, and frantically beat his forehead.
In the meantime Glenarvan had joined Mulready and Wilson, who were on guard without. A deep silence reigned on the plain lying between the wood and the river. Heavy clouds covered the vault of the sky. In this deadened and torpid atmosphere the least sound would have been clearly transmitted; but nothing was heard. Ben Joyce and his band must have fled to a considerable distance; for flocks of birds that sported on the low branches of the trees, several kangaroos peacefully browsing on the young shoots, and a pair of cassowaries, whose unsuspecting heads were thrust between the tall bushes, proved that the presence of man did not disturb these peaceful solitudes.
“You have not seen nor heard anything for an hour?” inquired Glenarvan of the two sailors.
“Nothing, my lord,” replied Wilson. “The convicts must be several miles away.”
“They cannot have been in sufficient force to attack us,” added Mulready. “This Ben Joyce probably intended to recruit some bandits, like himself, among the bushrangers that wander at the foot of the Alps.”
“Very likely, Mulready,” replied Glenarvan. “These rascals are cowards. They know we are well armed, and are perhaps waiting for darkness to commence their attack. We must redouble our vigilance at nightfall. If we could only leave this marshy plain and pursue our journey towards the coast! But the swollen waters of the river bar our progress. I would pay its weight in gold for a raft that would transport us to the other side!”
“Why,” said Wilson, “does not your lordship give us the order to construct this raft? There is plenty of wood.”
“No, Wilson,” answered Glenarvan; “this Snowy is not a river, it is an impassable torrent.”
At this moment Captain Mangles, the major, and Paganel joined Glenarvan. They had been to examine the Snowy. The waters, swollen by the recent rains, had risen a foot above low-water mark, and formed an impetuous current. It was impossible to venture upon this roaring deluge, these rushing floods, broken into a thousand eddies by the depressions of the riverbed. Captain Mangles declared that the passage was impracticable.
“But,” added he, “we ought not to remain here without making any attempt. What we wished to do before Ayrton’s treason is still more necessary now.”
“What do you say, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“I say that assistance is needed; and since we cannot go to Twofold Bay, we must go to Melbourne. One horse is left. Let your lordship give him to me, and I will go.”
“But it is a perilous venture, John,” said Glenarvan. “Aside from the dangers of this journey of two hundred miles across an unknown country, all the roads may be guarded by Ben Joyce’s accomplices.”
“I know it, my lord; but I know, too, that our situation cannot be prolonged. Ayrton only asked eight
