‘The description of that man’s appearance might fit this man,’ he thought; ‘due allowance being made for the circumstances under which we see him. Tall and dark, with a thin lissom figure, a hooked nose, a hawk’s eye; that was the description they gave me at Wykhamston; I had it from three separate people. There is no palpable discrepancy, and yet—bah, I am a fool to think of it! Haven’t I had trouble of mind enough upon this score, and would it do any good to her—in her grave, perhaps—if I had my wish: if God gave me the means of keeping the promise I made five years ago, when I was little more than a boy?’ Lucius’s thoughts rambled on while the stranger sat beside him, with brooding eyes fixed, like his, upon the flare of the pine-logs. ‘By the way,’ said Lucius presently, rousing himself from that long reverie, ‘when my friend yonder spoke of Balliol, you pricked up your ears as if the name were familiar to you. That’s odd, since you have never been in England.’ ‘I suppose there is nothing especially odd in my having had an English acquaintance in my prosperous days, when even Englishmen were not ashamed to know me. One may be familiar with the name of a college without having seen the college itself. I had a friend who was a student at Balliol.’ ‘I wonder whether he was the man who wrote “_Aratus sum!_” upon one of the tables in the examiners’ room after they ploughed him,’ speculated Geoffrey idly. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Stranger,’ said Lucius presently, struggling with the sense of irritation caused by that wild fancy which the stranger’s playing had inspired, ‘it’s all very well for us to give you a corner in our hut. As good or evil fortune brought you this way, we could hardly be so unchristian as to refuse you our shelter; God knows it’s poor enough, and death is near enough inside as well as outside these wooden walls; but even Christianity doesn’t oblige us to harbour a man without a name. That traveller who fell among thieves told the Samaritan his name, rely upon it, as soon as he was able to say anything. No honest man withholds his name from the men he breaks bread with. Even the Indians tell us their names; so be good enough to give us yours.’ ‘I renounced my own name when I turned my back upon civilisation,’ answered the stranger doggedly; ‘I brought no card-case to this side of the Rocky Mountains. If you give me your hospitality,’ with a monosyllabic laugh and a scornful glance round the hut, ‘solely on condition that I acquaint you with my antecedents, I renounce your hospitality. I can go back to the forest and liberty. As you say, death could not be much farther off out yonder in the snow. If you only want my name for the purposes of social intercourse, you can call me what the Indians call me, a sobriquet of their own invention, “Matchi Mohkamarn.”’