For the first time, Lady Bridget heard the wail of the curlew--a long note, weirdly melancholy.

It startled her out of her husband's arms.

There were uncanny swishings of wings in the great gum tree on the other side of the creek.

And now the clanking of the horses' hobbles which had been dilatory, intermittent, became sharply recurrent.

A shout from Moongarr Bill cut short the monotonous corroboree tune which the two black boys had been singing at their camp some little distance away.
'My word, I believe YARRAMAN* break him hobble!' [*Yarraman--horse.] At which the boys scampered off through the grass, and presently came the cracking of a stock whip among the trees.
'It's all right, Moongarr Bill's after them,' said McKeith, as his bride released herself from his arms.