So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in, and rose to meet them. "This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which I wish to give to the commune." "They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over them first. Did he tell you who he was?" "The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a decent funeral." "Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller; name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be enough for identification." "He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India." "Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, "if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur." "I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, addressing Roland. "No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am but a passing traveller like himself." "You will assist at the funeral?" he asked. "If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay." "Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?" "There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland. "And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?" "I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy emphasis. For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly. "And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor. "Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver."