“The darkness matters not,” averred Prat. “See, I have brought a lanthorn.” And, so saying, he lighted the sheltered candle with flint and steel. Handing the lanthorn to Gyll, who, like a will-o’-the-wisp, led the way into the forest, he then lent assistance to Rouse in supporting the stranger. For several minutes they followed the trail without speaking; but soon their ragged charge broke the silence. He spoke as though to himself, in a voice suggestive of vague reminiscence. Presently his words became more audible, the broken phrases more coherent. “A year,” he said—“a year in hell!” And then, in a clear, low tone, “There were fifteen men of us, just fifteen men, all damned save one.” “My God!” ejaculated Rouse, halting suddenly; and Roger, coming likewise to a stand-still, stood surveying the youthful, bearded face, with mouth agape in mute amazement. Vytal turned, but, fearing to break the spell of memory, said nothing. And Gyll Croyden, who had half caught the meaning of the words, returned to the group with her lanthorn. Holding the light high, so that its dim rays fell athwart the stranger’s face, she, too, gazed into the boyish blue eyes with wonder and impatience. As the features were thus illuminated, Vytal’s expression changed. In a voice that surprised its hearers by an unaccustomed vagueness of tone, which matched in uncertainty the youth’s own accents, he demanded, slowly, “Your name, sir; first, your name.” The blue eyes met Vytal’s look squarely, but, blending with their candor, a peculiar, veiled expression suggested to the keen observer an incongruous amusement. “Ralph Contempt.” “Ralph Contempt!” echoed Roger, in an undertone. “It hath the sound of a stage conceit.”