Présentation de l'éditeur
Daughter of the Bush. CHAPTER I. THE MOUNT OF OLIVES. It must have been a dingo running across the starlit bridle track that threw old Sorrel from her stride. She was far too staid and self-possessed a creature to have permitted herself to be startled by a wombat or a wallaby. But I shall never know for certain, because I was asleep. I awoke to find myself sprawled at the bottom of a little gully that ran beside the path. And the worst of it was my right leg was broken. Sorrel was awfully sorry. She whinnied the most abject of apologies, and when I had contrived to drag myself upon the ledge she rubbed me all over with her nose. Fortunately I had a flask of whisky in my swag, but a tot-full of raw spirit could not prevent me from swooning. But it was better when my senses finally returned. My leg had gotten numbed, and it scarcely pained at all. I propped mjself against a tree and looked about me. Sorrel was cropping the dew-wet mountain grass, her body silhouetted sharply against the stars. Strange to say, there were stars all round me. I seemed to-be sitting on the summit of the world.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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