“Now. There’s no time like the present. Strike when the iron’s hot, boys!” he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled. “You know what we’ve got to do. Advance together, like cats, till we’re within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my signal, the owl’s hoot. No shouting, mind, till the first screech comes from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all of you, till your throats split if you like, an’ pick up the gold. Now, don’t trouble yourselves much about fighting. Let the bags be the main look-out—of course you’ll have to defend your own heads, though I don’t think there’ll be much occasion for that—an’ you know, if any of them are fools enough to fight for their gold, you’ll have to dispose of them somehow.”

Having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band put himself at its head and led the way.

While this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, Fred Westly and Flinders were preparing for flight. They did not doubt that their friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their minds to fly with him and share his fortunes.

“We have nothing to gain, you see, Paddy,” said Fred, “by remaining here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by going.”

“Thrue for ye, sor, an’ nothin’ to carry except ourselves, worse luck!” said the Irishman, with a deep sigh. “Howiver, we lave no dibts behind us, that’s wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an’ horses wid clear consciences. Are ye all ready now, sor?”

“Almost ready,” replied Fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his belt and picking up his rifle. “Go for the horses, Pat, and wait at the stable for me. Our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them round here.”

Now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp, in the direction in which the marauders were approaching. It was a small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which overlooked the camp, and from which Tom Brixton’s prison could be clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll.

Paddy Flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to the hut. To reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the front. As he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at hand. A large log lay on the ground. With speed worthy of a redskin he sank down beside it.

“This way, captain; I’ve bin here before, an’ know that you can see the whole camp from it—if it wasn’t so confoundedly dark. There’s a log somewhere—ah, here it is; we’ll be able to see better if we mount it.”

“I wish we had more light,” growled the so-called captain; “it won’t be easy to make off on horseback in such—is this the log? Here, lend a hand.”

As he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little finger of Pat Flinders’s left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing on to the log in question!

A peculiarly Irish howl all but escaped from poor Flinders’s lips.

“I see,” said Stalker, after a few moments. “There’s enough of us to attack a camp twice the size. Now we must look sharp. I’ll go round to the prison and set Brixton free. When that’s done, I’ll hoot three times—so—only a good deal louder. Then you an’ the boys will rush in and—you know the rest. Come.”

Descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the spot. Then Paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the prize of the race were life!

“Bad luck to you, ye murtherin’ thieves,” growled the Irishman, as he ran, “but I’ll stop yer game, me boys!”