I wished him to call at my tent on the Eureka, and see
that my stretcher was ready for my weary limbs.
Full stop. My right hand shakes like a reed in a storm; my eyes swell
from a flood of tears. I can control the bitterness of my heart, and say,
"So far shalt thou go;" but I cannot control its ebb and flow: just now
is springtide.
If I must again name a noble-hearted German, Carl Wiesenhavern, of the
Prince Albert Hotel, who was my good Samaritan, I must also annex the
following three documents, because my friends in Rome and Turin may take
my wrongs too much to heart!
Chapter XCVII.
The End Of Men Whose Word Is Their Bond.
(Per favour of 'The Times'.)
"On the disgraced Sunday morning, December 3rd, whilst attending the
wounded diggers at the London Hotel, I was arrested by seven troopers,
handcuffed, and dragged to the Camp. On my arrival there, I was commanded
to strip to the bare shirt; whilst so doing I was kicked, knocked about,
and at last thrown into the lock-up by half-drunken troopers and soldiers.
My money, clothes, and watertight boots, which were quite new, could
nowhere be found at the Camp.
