Suddenly he seemed to have taken a resolution, and he returned to the engineer. His eyes were red with the traces of tears, and his face wore an expression of deep humility. He seemed apprehensive, ashamed, humiliated, and his looks were fixed on the ground. “Sir,” said he, “are you and your companions English?” “No,” replied Smith, “we are Americans.” “Ah!” murmured the Unknown, “I am glad of that.” “And what are you, my friend?” asked the engineer. “English,” he responded, as if these few words had cost him a great effort. He rushed to the shore, and traversed its length to the mouth of the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation. Having, at one place, met Herbert, he stopped, and in a choking voice, accosted him:— “What month is it?” “November,” replied the lad. “And what year?” “1866.” “Twelve years! Twelve years!” he cried, and then turned quickly away. Herbert related this incident to the others. “The poor creature knew neither the month nor the year,” remarked Spilett. “And he had been twelve years on the island, when we found him.” “Twelve years,” said Smith. “Twelve years of isolation, after a wicked life, perhaps; that would indeed affect a man’s reason.” “I cannot help thinking,” observed Pencroff, “that this man was not wrecked on that island, but that he has been left there for some crime.” “You may be right, Pencroff,” replied the reporter, “and if that is the case, it is not impossible that whoever left him there may return for him some day.” “And they would not find him,” said Herbert. “But, then,” exclaimed Pencroff, “he would want to go back, and—” “My friends,” interrupted Smith, “do not let us discuss this question till we know what we are talking about. I believe that this unhappy man has suffered, and that he has paid bitterly for his faults, whatever they may have been, and that he is struggling with the need of opening his heart to someone. Do not provoke him to speak; he will tell us of his own accord some day, and when we have learned all, we will see what course it will be necessary to follow. He alone can tell us if he has more than the hope, the certainty of some day being restored to his country, but I doubt it.” “Why?” asked the reporter. “Because, had he been sure of being delivered after a fixed time, he would have awaited the hour of his deliverance, and not have thrown that paper in the sea. No, it is more likely that be was condemned to die upon this island, to never look upon his kind again.” “But there still is something which I cannot understand,” said the sailor. “What is that?” “Why, if this man had been left on Tabor Island twelve years ago, it seems probable that he must have been in this savage condition for a long time.” “That is probable,” replied the engineer. “And, therefore, it is a long time since he wrote that paper.” “Doubtless—and yet that paper seemed to have been written recently—”