The sight of that once-familiar face had a powerful effect upon Lucius. It brought back the memory of those dark days in the forest—the vision of the log-hut—those three quiet figures sitting despondently by the desolate hearth, where the pine-branches flared and crackled in the silence—three men who had no heart for cheerful talk—who had exhausted every argument by which hope might be sustained. And still more vividly came back to him the image of that fourth figure—the haggard face, with its tangled fringe of unkempt hair, the wild eyes and tawny skin, the long claw-like hands. Yes, it came back to him as he had seen it first peering in at the door of the hut—as he had seen it afterwards in the lurid glare of the pine-logs—as he had seen it last of all, distorted with a sudden agony—the death pang—when those bony hands relaxed their clutch upon the shattered casement. Swiftly did these hated memories flash through his mind. His time for thought was of the briefest, for the little sea-captain had not far to come before he must needs pass his old travelling companion. He looked about him gaily as he mounted, his cheery countenance and bearing offering a marked contrast to the dishevelled and woebegone air of his fellow passengers. Presently, as his gaze roved here and there among the crowd, his eyes lighted upon Lucius. His face became instantly illuminated. He had been warmly attached to the captain of the small band, yonder in the West. ‘Thank God,’ thought Lucius, seeing that glad eager look, ‘at least he doesn’t think of me as a murderer. The sight of me inspires no horror in his mind.’ ‘Yase,’ said the sea-captain, holding out his plump little hand; ‘there is no misdakes—it is my froint Daforen.’ He and his ‘froint Daforen’ grasped hands heartily, and suffered themselves to be pushed against the wooden railing of the wharf, while the crowd surged by them. ‘I thought you were in California,’ said Lucius, after that cordial salutation. ‘Ah, zat is der vay mit von’s froinds. Man goes to a place, and zey tink he is pound to sday there for the ewigkeit. He is gone, zey say, as if he had the bower of logomotion ferlost. Man dalks of him as if he vas dead. Yase, I have to Galifornia gebeen. I have diggit, and golt not gefounden, and have come to England zuruck; and have gone to Hampurg to see my families; and have found my families for the mosten dead, and am come back to my guddy at Pattersea, vhere my little housegeeper geep all things sdraight vhile I am avay. If I am in the Rocky Moundains, if I am in Galifornia, it is nichts. She geep my place didy. She haf my case-bottle and my bipe bereit vhen I go home. And now, Daforen, come to Pattersea one time, and let us have one long talk.’