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"Said he; 'O Fox, I have my due at thy hands, for I am a Markman of the Elkings, but a guest of the Burgundians beyond the Great River; and the Romans are their masters and they do their bidding: even so did I who was but their guest: and I a Markman to fight against the Markmen, and all for fear and for gold! And thou an alien-born hast slain their traitor and their dastard! This is my due.
Men say the Australian bush is singularly soulless; starkly devoid of the elements of interest and romance which so strongly endear to the hearts of those dwelling there the countryside in such Old World lands as the England of my birth. Maybe. Yet I have met men, both native-born and alien-born, who have dearly loved Australia; loved the land so well as to return to it, even after many days.
But in the twilight hour the real held still more aloof, and all the shadows bristled with dim fantastic shapes to awe and affright the alien-born. I was not alien-born. From earliest childhood I had known and loved these forest solitudes. Yet now, as when I was a little lad, the twilight shadows awed me.
Dillon Wallace tells a story of a man from New York who in the mountains of Colorado deliberately corrupted his guides with money or other influences, shot mountain sheep in midsummer, and "got away with it." In northern Minnesota, George E. Wood has been having a hand-to-hand fight with the worst community of game-hogs and alien-born poachers of which I have heard.
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