An axe was in his hand, and the saved single dinner of pea-bread.

That beetled-browed task-master slumbered in the hut; that brother convict--( why need he care for him, too?
every one for himself in this world)--that kinder, humbler, better man was digging in the open; if he wants to escape, let him think of himself: John Dillaway has enough to take care for.

Now, then; now, unobserved, unsuspected; now is the chance! Joy, life, and liberty! Oh, glorious prospect--for this inland world is unexplored.
He stole away, with panting heart, and fearfully exulting eye; he ran--ran--ran, for miles--it may have been scores of them--till night-fall, on the soft and pleasant greensward under those high echoing woods.

None pursued; safe--safe; and deliciously he slept that night beneath a spreading wattle-tree, after the first sweet meal of freedom.
Next morning, waked up like the starting kangaroos around him (for John Dillaway had not bent the knee in prayer since childhood), off he set triumphant and refreshed: his arm was strong, and he trusted in it, his axe was sharp, and he looked to that for help; he knew no other God.

Off he set for miles--miles--miles: still that continuous high acacia wood, though less naturally park-like, often-times choked with briars, and here and there impervious a-head.