came a voice through the interstices of the
logs--a voice that more resembled the growl of a bear, than the
articulation of a human throat. "Who the hell air you?" repeated the
voice, while at the same time, I could perceive the figure rising from
the chair.

I made no answer to the rough query. I saw that my last summons had
been sufficient. I could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking under a
heavy boot; and knew from this, that my questioner was passing towards
the door. In another instant he stood in the doorway--his body filling
it from side to side--from head to stoop. A fearful-looking man was
before me. A man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the
second button of his coat; and above it a face, not to be looked upon
without a sensation of terror: a countenance expressive of determined
courage, but, at the same time, of ferocity, untempered by any trace of
a softer emotion. A shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled;
eyebrows like a _chevaux-de-frise_ of hogs' bristles; eyes of a
greenish-grey, with a broad livid scar across the left cheek, were
component parts in producing this expression; while a red cotton
kerchief, wound, turban-like, around the head, and, pulled low down in
front, rendered it more palpable and pronounced. A loose coat of thick
green blanket, somewhat faded and worn, added to the colossal appearance
of the man; while a red-flannel shirt served him also for a vest. His
large limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue Kentucky _jeans_ cloth;
but these were scarcely visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample
blanket-coat that draped down below the tops of a pair of rough
horse-skin boots reaching above the knee, and into which the trousers
had been tucked. The face of the man was a singular picture; the
colossal stature rendered it more striking; the costume corresponded;
and all were in keeping with the rude manner of my reception.

It was idle to ask the question. From the description given me by the
young backwoodsman, I knew the man before me to be Hickman Holt the
squatter.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A ROUGH RECEPTION.

For fashion's sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, "Mr Holt, I
presume?" but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the
squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous
interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude.

"What's all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin' imperence, who