At that moment I stepped forward so that the light fell on me. The old gentleman on the couch rose with some difficulty and bowed with much courtesy. He was a fine-looking old man, with deep-set dark eyes, a pale face that bore many traces of physical and mental suffering, and a long white beard. “Be welcome, sir,” he said. “It is long since we have seen a white face in these wilds, and yours, if I am not mistaken, is that of an Englishman. There has been but one Englishman here for twelve years, and he, I grieve to say, was an outcast flying from justice,” and he bowed again and stretched out his hand. I looked at him, and then of a sudden his name flashed back into my mind. I took his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Carson?” I said. He started as though he had been stung. “Who told you that name?” he cried. “It is a dead name. Stella, is it you? I forbade you to let it pass your lips.” “I did not speak it, father. I have never spoken it,” she answered. “Sir,” I broke in, “if you will allow me I will show you how I came to know your name. Do you remember many years ago coming into the study of a clergyman in Oxfordshire and telling him that you were going to leave England for ever?” He bowed his head. “And do you remember a little boy who sat upon the hearthrug writing with a pencil?” “I do,” he said. “Sir, I was that boy, and my name is Allan Quatermain. Those children who lay sick are all dead, their mother is dead, and my father, your old friend, is dead also. Like you he emigrated, and last year he died in the Cape. But that is not all the story. After many adventures, I, one Kaffir, and a little girl, lay senseless and dying in the Bad Lands, where we had wandered for days without water, and there we should have perished, but your daughter, Miss——” “Call her Stella,” he broke in, hastily. “I cannot bear to hear that name. I have forsworn it.” “Miss Stella found us by chance and saved our lives.” “By chance, did you say, Allan Quatermain?” he answered. “There is little chance in all this; such chances spring from another will than ours. Welcome, Allan, son of my old friend. Here we live as it were in a hermitage, with Nature as our only friend, but such as we have is yours, and for as long as you will take it. But you must be starving; talk no more now. Stella, it is time to eat. To-morrow we will talk.” To tell the truth I can recall very little of the events of that evening. A kind of dizzy weariness overmastered me. I remember sitting at a table next to Stella, and eating heartily, and then I remember nothing more.