A little heated by his exertion, he opened the gate with one hand, rubbing his shoulder with the other, and with a nod of his head invited the fugitive to enter, wondering meanwhile what it was about the man’s neck that had pressed so hard against his shoulder all the way. Something as hard as iron, and several times he had even felt a point, like a muffled spike, press upon his flesh, through the folds of his blanket. There was something mysterious under those folds, he thought, as he unlocked his door, and he was curious to know what it could be. Congratulating himself that he had been so lucky as not to meet a single person during his nocturnal march, he held the door open till the fugitive had entered, and then closing and locking it, he took the glimmering lamp from the chimney, set it on the table, and turned up the flame. The fugitive stood, shaking on his gaunt legs, with his eyes wildly revolving upon the rows of books all around him, and ever returning to rest for a moment on the bust of Lord Bacon on its pedestal. Poor Tom in Lear—that wild figure plucked up from the low gulfs of the Elizabethan wretchedness, and set in Shakspearean light forever—was tame compared to the lank and ghastly figure of the lorn wanderer from slavery. Less unearthly in the light which fell upon his visage from the funnel of the lamp, than in the weird rays of the moon, he was not less hideously pitiable. His face, which was naturally quite dark, was terribly emaciated, with the skull almost visible through its wasted features, or, at least, suggested by the prominence of the teeth and forehead, the projection of the cheek-bones, the hollow pits of the cheeks, and the cavernousness of the eyes, which were ridged with heavy eyebrows. Harrington took in his aspect with one firm glance, and mindful of his weakness, brought him a chair, and made him sit down; then opened the windows, to let the fresh air relieve the smell of his rags in the close room. Going up his ladder the next minute, he lit a lamp above, and turned on the water into his bath-tub. He came down presently, bare to the waist, the light gleaming on his muscular arms and massive chest, and stood fronting the fugitive with his watch in his hand, his head bent toward him on the kingly and beautiful slope of his white shoulders. “Now, friend,” said he, with naive gravity, “you must be washed. In five minutes the bath-tub will be full, so take off those things, and I’ll give you some other clothes.” “Yes, Marster, I’m in need of bein’ washed. I ain’t fit to be in this nice house,” quavered the fugitive abjectly, rising feebly as he spoke. Harrington, without replying, watched him curiously as he fumbled at the blanket on his neck, and saw that he was loth to remove it. “O Marster, Marster,” he groaned, “I’m afeard to let you see it. But, Marster, you’ll be friendly to me, and you won’t send me back, Marster?”