of the two strangers related, among others,
an occurrence which had come within his
own experience.

Separated from his party, he had been, he
said, for several days exploring the north fork
of the American River, a wild, desolate, and
almost uninhabited part of the country, in
search of new "placers." One evening,
about sunset, a storm among the mountains
had overtaken him, far from his own camping
place. For some time he had looked in vain
for shelter, and was beginning to make up
his mind to find a cave for the night, when
he saw half way up the side of a range the
welcome gleam of a light, evidently belonging
to some tent or hut. On coming nearer he
found that it was burning in a small black
covered tent. As the American paused for
a moment, when he had said so much, to
struggle with his pipe, I heard a stifled
sound, and when the next flash of lightning
came I saw that my partner's face was turned
towards us.

Wet and tired as he was, the man went on
to tell us, he lost no time in crossing an
intervening gully and began to climb towards the
tent. He was picking his way in the darkness,
among loose rocks and stones scattered
about, when he was suddenly startled by a
shriek of terror or of passion or of pain,
followed at once by the report of a pistol in
the tent. Then there was dead silence.
While looking upward undecidedly he saw
a figure muffled in a cloak suddenly leave
the tent and climb very swiftly up the hillside.
He either faded away in the darkness
of the night, or disappeared over the top
of the range. At all events he saw no more
of him.

I can hardly account for the instinct by
which I was urged to look, while this was
being told, towards Browden. I saw through
some chance flashes that he had raised
himself on his arm, and that his face was full of
horror; that he was listening to the American's
tale as though his very life depended
on it.

Drawing his knife from its sheath, the man
said, he went resolutely up the hill, and at
once entered the tent. There he found no
living creature. Stretched upon the ground
in a large pool of blood lay the corpse of a
tall man hideously mutilated and yet warm.
His face was so completely shattered, by the
close discharge of the pistol, that not a
feature could be recognised. His hand still
grasped a dagger; and some gold and coin,
as well as a pack of monte cards, lay strewn
about upon the ground.

Preferring storm and rain to shelter in such
company, the digger left the body to itself
and made his way to Auburn, which is a
village about one mile from the river. What
became of the murderer—whether the body
was ever found, or whether it rotted away
undiscovered and unrevenged, he knew not.
It was better, he said (in California particularly),
to let such affairs alone; and he had
never cared to speak about the matter
there. Having told his story, the American
proceeded to dilate, for our satisfaction and
his own, upon the horrid aspect of the
mutilated body. He always thought of it, he
said, on stormy nights. When he had quite
done we were all silent for a time, and I saw
by the next flash that Browden lay
completely muffled in his blanket. The instant
afterwards a clap of thunder seemed to burst
immediately over our heads, and it was
followed by a prolonged human cry—to me,
believing that I knew the cause of it—most
wild and terrible. It brought us quickly to
our feet.  A light was struck, and Browden
was found to be struggling in a fit. For hours
he continued violent during the paroxysms,
moaning and sobbing in the pauses between
the attacks. It sometimes required the
strength of us all to hold him down upon his
stretcher. At length, however, in the very
early dawn he sank into uneasy slumber; I
made no effort to sleep, but feeling feverish
and troubled went outside the tent. The air
after the storm was fresh, and I was soon
again brisk enough to set about preparing
breakfast. The two men thought nothing of
Browden's fits, and my suspicions were based
on the vaguest inferences. Yet they were to
me as certain knowledge. I was not sorry
when my guests, abruptly rising, shouldered
their picks and shovels, wished me
good morning and departed. Left to myself,
I for a long time meditated on the course I
should pursue. After some consideration, I
resolved that, as our total separation was
already decided upon, I must leave Browden
to follow his own fate, and for my own part
go to work as usual. My late partner was
still in a deep lethargy, from which I did not
attempt to rouse him. I intended, however,
to come myself, or to send the boy from time
to time up from the claim in case the attacks
of the previous night should return upon
him. After working for an hour or two,
accordingly, the boy was sent up to look after
him. He came running down to me in a few
minutes, and told me that the tent was empty
and my partner gone. From that hour to
this I never again saw him. He was not a
partner to forget, and many months after
wards he was especially called to my memory
by a paragraph upon which I lighted while
looking through some back numbers of the
Bathurst Free Press. I cut it out, for I
believe that it relates to Browden.

"BODY FOUND.—Last evening the remains of a
tall man, in an advanced stage of decomposition,
were discovered and taken out of the Macquarrie
River a few miles below Bathurst by a person who
was fishing near the spot. He was dressed as a gold-
digger, wore a scarlet shirt, red silk sash, with a
large sheathed knife and high boots. He has not
been identified, and had been too long in the water
for his features to be at all recognisable. An
inquest was held on the body, when no evidence as
to the manner in which he came by his death being