For quite a time they expected an attack in force by the powerful Coonabarabran tribe to avenge Red Kangaroo’s successful raid upon them. It did not come, to their relief, perhaps partly because he had killed their warrior leader, Kulki, whose reputation was known far and wide—a lucky killing that had added to the already formidable reputation of the Gunn-e-darr fighting men. Their strength in numbers, also, was believed to be great by their enemies, otherwise they would surely not have sent woman-stealers so impudently into the lands of such a powerful tribe as the Coonabarabran.

So time went on, while the new chief and the council watched carefully over the tribe, cautiously attempting to build up its strength—far too slowly, it seemed to Red Kangaroo.

And Giluram still waited for Weetah, both now hoping against hope, for the time was fast coming when old Tulduna would claim her. But here Red Kangaroo was able to help his friend, through his uncle the chief and the warrior Burradella. A bargain was made quietly. Red Kangaroo would give a possum-skin cape and a kangaroo-skin rug, a good spear, a nulla, and two boomerangs that he had taken in his fights, if Tulduna would waive his claim to the girl Weetah for but twelve moons more.

Tulduna eagerly accepted. A good bargain this, almost something for nothing. He must, of course, lose the girl’s services for a year. But the compensating payment was high. And he could easily wait for those twelve moons.

Red Kangaroo grinned to himself. He knew what he intended to do towards the end of that twelve months. But he kept the secret to himself. As for Weetah and Giluram, they lived in hope again, thinking the world had grown suddenly wonderful. That night they hardly heard the stories round the campfire, they were trying so hard not to look at one another.

A beautiful night, such as might smile in heaven. In a dome of deepest blue the twinkle of many stars, while below on earth the cool, sweet breath of the bush was a joy to breathe. And all so still and silent—just a sigh now and then amongst the leaves, as a babe might sigh in sleep.

All the children in camp, and many of the older folk, were sitting tightly crowded round old Mullionkale the story-teller, the children the closest, the youngest daring to touch his bony knees as they clustered round him like bees. And so unusually quiet. All those young eyes gazing up at his kindly gnarled old face of a hundred wrinkles, eyes kissed a second by starlight should they move, ears so wide open, striving to catch every word of the gentle old voice that carried so far and easily in this listening silence.

This night old Mullionkale was telling them about Baia-me, but only so much as it was good for such little people to know.

“As you all know,” spoke the old voice reverently, “Baia-me is the Great Builder, He Who Made All Things—the stars and the sky, the bush and the waters, the birds and animals, the snakes and the lizards, the fishes, the trees, and the wee insects. He even made you and me! When your father and your mother build a gunyah, a canoe, anything—we say “baia”—to make or build. And Baia-me, the Great Spirit of All Things, is He Who Built All Things.