Had any one been watching the camp-fires of the banished¹ colonists³ that night, the last idea that would have entered the observer’s mind would have been that of suffering or distress⁴.

 

The night was brilliantly fine, and just cold enough to make the blazing fires agreeable without being necessary—except, indeed, as a means of cooking food. The light of these fires, shining through the green, yellow, and golden foliage⁵, and illuminating⁶ the sunburnt faces of men, women, and children, gave to the scene a strain of the free, the wild, and the romantic, which harmonised well with the gypsy-like appearance of the people, and formed a ruddy contrast to the pure cold light of the innumerable stars overhead, which, with their blue-black setting, were reflected in the neighbouring lake.

 

Over every fire pots and kettles were suspended from tripods, or rested on the half-burned logs, while impaled⁷ wild-fowl roasted in front of it. Food being in great abundance, hearts were light in spite of other adverse⁸ circumstances, and men and women, forgetting to some extent the sufferings of the past and the dark prospects⁹ of the future, appeared to abandon themselves to the enjoyment¹⁰ of the present.

 

The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty of mischief¹¹; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as to induce a squalling protest against the

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