Some men who held pocket handkerchiefs now approached, and deftly bound their eyes. The boat then started. In a few minutes they felt the boat strike against another shore, and received a slight shock as it did so. "Don't touch your bands," cried the captain; "wait a while." They were then lifted up with every precaution by several men, who soon put them down, removing the bandages. Looking round, they found themselves in a vast chamber, furnished with every regard to comfort and elegance. The captain was alone, the men having left. "Welcome, gentlemen," he said. "I hope the frank and cordial hospitality I shall offer you will make you excuse this precaution." The strangers merely bowed. "I need not remind you, gentlemen," continued Tom Mitchell, "that you are at home; but, in order not to detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, let us to business. Will you follow me, sir, first?" This was said to the younger Frenchman. As he spoke he opened a door and the two passed out together. The two other strangers remained alone. The Frenchman, with a frown, began to walk up and down whistling; the American sat down. As soon as Tom Mitchell had the other alone, he cried-- "Sir, tell me at once if I am mistaken." "I see you have a good memory," replied the other, "and yet it is a very long time ago since we met." "Then I am not mistaken?" cried Tom Mitchell. "Monsieur Maillard, my name is Pierre Durand." "Who saved the life of myself and father," said Tom, shaking him by the hand, "even though you knew--" "I knew that your father an hour before had sat as president of the grim tribunal of the Abbaye," replied the young Frenchman. "I knew the intense hatred which was felt towards you; still, I drew you more dead than alive from the river." "You did more--you hid us and helped us to escape." "It was tit for tat; your father once saved my life." "But you paid your debt with usury. When I parted from you at New York--I was sixteen then--I said, 'Whatever happens, my life, my fortune, my honour is at your disposal.' I am ready to fulfil my promise, so speak." "I knew you would do all in your power," said Pierre Durand; "therefore I have come. How is your father?" "He has become an Indian, and wholly broken with everything in the shape of civilisation," said Tom. "Is he happy?" asked Durand. "Yes. He was a man of conviction. His faults--his crimes if you like--during the Reign of Terror were caused by his extreme sincerity. In that time of awful and terrible commotion," continued Tom, "he acted wholly conscientiously." "I believe it, and therefore do not presume to be his judge. I am but a weak and ordinary man," cried Durand; "when the time comes God will judge these Titans of the revolution according to their merits and convictions." "Doubtless. I shall let him know of your coming; but why?" "A question of life and death in connection with my best friend, a man I love as a brother," cried Durand.