"Yes, I know. But I don't think we'll gain much by overdoing it."

"If you're thinking about me," Norah said impatiently, "you needn't. I'm as right as rain. You must think I'm pretty soft! Do come on!"

He looked at her steadily. Dark shadows of weariness lay under the brave eyes that met his.

"Why, no," he said. "Fact is, I'm a bit of a new chum myself where riding's concerned--you mustn't be too ashamed of me. I think we'd better walk for a while. And you take this."

He poured something from his flask into its little silver cup and handed it to Norah. Their eyes met, and she read his meaning through the kindness of the words that cloaked what he felt. Above her weariness a sense of comfort stole over Norah. She knew in that look that henceforth they were friends.

She gulped down the drink, which was hateful, but presently sent a feeling of renewed strength through her tired limbs. They rode on in silence for some time, the horses brushing through the long soft gra.s.s.

d.i.c.k Stephenson pulled hard at his pipe.

"Did--did my father know you this morning?" he asked suddenly.

Norah shook her head mournfully.

"He didn't know anyone," she answered, "only asked for water and said things I couldn't understand. Then when Dad came he knew him at once, but the Hermit didn't seem even to know that Dad was there."

"Did he look very bad?"

"Yes--pretty bad," said Norah, hating to hurt him. "He was terribly flushed, and oh! his poor eyes were awful, so burning and sunken.

And--oh!--let's canter, Mr. Stephenson, please!"

This time there was no objection. Banker jumped at the quick touch of the spur as Stephenson's heel went home. Side by side they cantered steadily until Norah pulled her pony in at length at the entrance to the timber, where the creek swung into Anglers' Bend.

"We're nearly there," she said.

But to the man watching in the Hermit's camp the hours were long indeed.

The Hermit was too weak to struggle much. There had been a few sharp paroxysms of delirium, such as Norah had seen, during which David Linton had been forced to hold the old man down with unwilling force. But the struggles soon brought their own result of helpless weakness, and the Hermit subsided into restless unconsciousness, broken by feeble mutterings, of which few coherent words could be caught. "d.i.c.k" was frequently on the fevered lips. Once he smiled suddenly, and Mr. Linton, bending down, heard a faint whisper of "Norah."

Sitting beside his old friend in the lonely silence of the bush, he studied the ravages time and sorrow had wrought in the features be knew.

Greatly changed as Jim Stephenson was, his face lined and sunken, and his beard long and white as snow, it was still, to David Linton, the friend of his boyhood come back from the grave and from his burden of unmerited disgrace. The frank blue eyes were as brave as ever; they met his with no light of recognition, but with their clear gaze undimmed. A sob rose in the strong man's throat--if he could but see again that welcoming light!--hear once more his name on his friend's lips! If he were not too late!

The Hermit muttered and tossed on his narrow bed. The watcher's thoughts fled to the little messenger galloping over the long miles of lonely country--his motherless girl, whom he had sent on a mission that might so easily spell disaster. Horrible thoughts came into the father's mind.

He pictured Bobs putting his hoof into a hidden crab-hole--falling--Norah lying white and motionless, perhaps far from the track. That was not the only danger. Bad characters were to be met with in the bush and the pony was valuable enough to tempt a desperate man--such as the Winfield murderer, who was roaming the district, n.o.body knew where. There was a score of possible risks; to battle with them, a little maid of twelve, strong only in the self-reliance bred of the bush. The father looked at the ghastly face before him, and asked himself questions that tortured--Was it right to have let the young life go to save the old one that seemed just flickering out? He put his face in his hands and groaned.

How long the hours were! He calculated feverishly the time it would take the little messenger to reach home if all went well; then how long it must be before a man could come out to him. At that thought he realised for the first time the difficulty Norah had seen in silence--who should come out to him? Black Billy must fetch the doctor and guide him to the sick man; but no one else save Norah herself knew the track to the little camp, hidden so cunningly in the scrub, at that rate it might be many hours before he knew if his child were safe. Anxiety for the remedies for his friend was swallowed up in the anguish of uncertainty for Norah. It seemed to him that he must go to seek her--that he could not wait! He started up, but, as if alarmed by his sudden movement, the Hermit cried out and tried to rise, struggling feebly with the strong hands that were quick to hold him back. When the struggle was over David Linton sat down again. How could he leave him?

Then across his agony of uncertainty came a clear childish voice. The tent flaps were parted and Norah stood in the entrance white and trembling, but with a glad smile of welcome on her lips--behind her a tall man, who trembled, too. David Linton did not see him. All the world seemed whirling round him as he caught his child in his arms.

CHAPTER XVI. FIGHTING DEATH

"You!" Mr. Linton said.

He had put Norah gently into the rough chair, and turned to d.i.c.k Stephenson, who was standing by his father, his lips twitching. They gripped hands silently.

"You can recognise him?"

"I'd know him anywhere," the son said. "Poor old dad! You think--?"

"I don't know," the other said hastily. "Can't tell until Anderson comes. But I fancy it's typhoid. You brought the things? Ah!" His eyes brightened as they fell on the leather medicine-case Mrs. Brown had sent, and in a moment he was unstrapping it with quick, nervous fingers..

The Hermit stirred, and gasped for water. He drank readily enough from the gla.s.s Mr. Linton held to his lips, while his son supported him with strong young arms. There was not much they could do.

"Anderson should be here before long," Mr. Linton said. "What time did Billy leave?"

"A little after twelve."

"What did he ride?"

"A big black."

"That's right," Mr. Linton nodded. "Anderson would motor out to Billabong, I expect, and Mrs. Brown would have the fresh horses ready.

They should not be very long, with ordinary luck. Billy left about twelve, did he? By Jove, Norah must have made great time! It was after half-past ten when she left me."

"She and the pony looked as if they'd done enough."

"And she came back! I hadn't realised it all in the minute of seeing her," her father said, staring at Stephenson. "Norah, dear, are you quite knocked up?" He turned to speak, but broke off sharply. Norah was gone.

Mr. Linton turned on his heel without a word, and hurried out of the tent, with Stephenson at his side. Just for a moment the Hermit was forgotten in the sudden pang of anxiety that gripped them both. In the open they glanced round quickly, and a sharp exclamation of dismay broke from the father.

Norah was lying in a crumpled heap under a tree. There was something terribly helpless in the little, quiet figure, face downwards, on the gra.s.s.

Just for a moment, as he fell on his knees beside her, David Linton lost his self-control. He called her piteously, catching the limp body to him. d.i.c.k Stephenson's hand fell on his shoulder.

"She's only fainted," he said huskily. "Over-tired, that's all. Put her down, sir, please"--and Mr. Linton, still trembling, laid the little girl on the gra.s.s, and loosened her collar, while the other forced a few drops from his flask between the pale lips.

Gradually Norah's eyes flickered and opened, and colour crept into her cheeks.

"Daddy!" she whispered.

"Don't talk, my darling," her father said. "Lie still."

"I'm all right now," Norah said presently. "I'm so sorry I frightened you, Daddy--I couldn't help it."

"You should have kept still, dear," said her father. "Why did you go out?"

"I felt rummy," said his daughter inelegantly; "a queer, whirly-go-round feeling. I guessed I must be going to tumble over. It didn't seem any good making a duffer of myself when you were busy with the Hermit, so I cut out."

d.i.c.k Stephenson turned sharply and, without a word, strode back into the tent.

Norah turned with a sudden movement to her father, clinging to the rough serge of his coat. Something like a tear fell on her upturned face as the strong arms enfolded her.