Crab had evidently mistaken the headland, and was making for one still more distant. What was to be done? In coming down to the coast line he had subjected himself to following out all the jagged and irregular course of the shore, and yet to venture inland without a guide would have been the extreme of rashness. There was nothing for it but to make a signal, if perchance it could be seen; the _Meteor_ was not more than a mile off, and the project seemed not hopeless. He tied his handkerchief to his cane, and hastened on towards one of the rocks before him; as he drew nigher, he saw something which at last he made out to be the figure of a man, seated with his head supported between his hands, and gazing steadfastly seaward. Vyner mounted the rock and waved his signal several times, but in vain; the dark background of the mountain probably obscured the flag, and prevented its being observed. “I want to signal the schooner yonder, my good man,” cried he to a poor-looking creature who sat crouched down close to the water’s edge; “could you get me some dry leaves or chips together to make a fire?” The other looked up with a startled air, for he had thought himself alone, and then rising to his feet, they stood face to face. “My dear old friend!” cried Vyner, “have we met at last? How glad I am to see you again.” “Not this way, surely, not this way,” muttered Luttrell, in a faint and broken voice. “To be sure I am, Luttrell. I’ ll call the chance that led me here one of the happiest of my life, if it brings you back to any of your old feeling for me.” “You got my note?” asked the other, in a hoarse voice. “Yes; and it was no part of my intention to molest you, Luttrell. This meeting is, I assure you, the merest accident.” “Let me go, then, Vyner; the shame is killing me; I wouldn’t that you had seen me thus--in these rags, in all this misery. These are not the memories I wanted you to carry away with you; but what would you have? I came here to live like the others.” “My dear old friend, I wanted to talk of long ago with you; it is not to reproach you I’ve come. Take my word for it, I feel too acutely all the wrong you have suffered from mine. I know too well at whose door your heaviest injuries lie.” “If I had attempted to be more or better than my neighbours, I couldn’t have lived here,” cried he, eagerly reverting to his self-defence. “But why live here, Luttrell? It is not at your age, or with your abilities, a man retires from the game of life.” “I have played all my cards, Gervais,” said he, with a wild laugh, “and never scored a point with them.” “How many a fellow has had a long run of ill-luck, to be repaid by as great a share of fortune after.” “Ay, but I ‘ll not try it! I don’t ask, I don’t wish it. If I were to win now, I have nothing to do with my winnings.” “Think of your boy--your fine boy, Luttrell!”