It would have been long before I recognised him but that he was calling me by name. A creature more changed no man could imagine. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, and wild in appearance, he was scarcely the shadow of his former self; he was clad in a rough garment of fur, barefooted and barearmed, and with long, tangled hair. But what most struck me—what struck me the instant I opened my eyes, and what never ceased to strike me after that—was the strange, haunted look of his whole countenance; his eyes, swift and restless, shone from beneath the shadow of his brows like those of some forest animal. For the first few dazed minutes I thought of what I had read of men who had gone mad, or had reverted to the beast, under such circumstances as these. Yet nothing could exceed the tenderness of my brother’s voice and manner to me; he bent over me with a gourd full of milk, which he helped me to drink, and he dried my face and brushed back the hair from my forehead, whispering to me as one might to a sick child. I can remember the very words of our conversation at that strange moment, so keenly did every circumstance impress me. I answered him faintly when he asked me how I did, and he pressed my hand. “You were seeking for me, brother?” he asked. “I was,” I said. “I sometimes thought that you might,” he exclaimed. “Alas! Alas!” I had been overwhelmed with joy as the truth dawned upon me—the truth that I had found him. I had forgotten our mutual plight. “Never mind,” I whispered. “We may get away somehow; and at least we can be together.” He answered nothing, but helped me lift my head. “How came you alone in that boat?” he asked. “It is a long story,” I replied, shuddering as I gazed at the waves that were thundering on the beach before us. “I will tell it later.” “You have been long upon the water?” “Only since last night,” I said; and then gazing about me suddenly, I cried: “And you—you have been here all these years!” “All these years,” he answered. “And alone?” “Alone.” I trembled as I gazed into his face; his eyes seemed fairly to burn. “How have you borne it?” I cried. “What have you done?” His answer made me start. “I have done very well,” he said; “I have not been unhappy.” The words seemed strange to me—but his voice was stranger yet. Surely there were signs enough of unhappiness upon his face! He seemed to read my thoughts. “Do not worry,” he went on, pressing his hand in mine; “I will tell you all about it later.” But my mind could not be turned away so easily. When I felt stronger and sat up, I came back to the question, gazing at his haggard face and the strange costume he wore. “You can make no better clothing?” I cried; “and for food—what do you do?” “I have all the food that I can eat,” was the response, “and everything else that I need. You shall see.” “But have you seen _no_ one?” I persisted—“no ships, in all this time?”