Explore "Robbery under Arms" by Rolf Boldrewood on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We rode along the old track very quiet, talking about old times -- or mostly saying nothing, thinking our own thoughts. Something seemed to put it into my head to watch every turn in the track -- every tree and bush by the roadside -- every sound in the air -- every star in the sky. Aileen rode along at last with her head drooped down as if she hadn't the heart to hold it up. How hard it must have seemed to her to think she didn't dare even to ride with her own brother in the light of day without starting at every bush that stirred -- at every footstep, horse or man, that fell on her ear!
There wasn't a breath of air that night. Not a leaf stirred -- not a bough moved of all the trees in the forest that we rode through. A possum might chatter or a night-owl cry out, but there wasn't any other sound, except the ripple of the creek over the stones, that got louder and clearer as we got nearer Rocky Flat. There was nothing like a cloud in the sky even. It wasn't an over light night, but the stars shone out like so many fireballs, and it was that silent anyone could almost have fancied they heard the people talking in the house we left, though it was miles away.