"But, excuse me, there must be some mistake. My daughter, Marguerite Sinclair, who was on board that vessel, spoke of a Mr. Power; but he was a young man. Of course, time does not stand still for any of us; but this Mr. Power would now be thirty-five, or thereabouts." "That is my age." "Thirty-five?" "Yes." Sinclair bent forward and peered into his visitor's eyes; it was difficult to detect any play of expression in the bearded face. "Are you really the man my daughter met on that steamer?" he asked, and there was a note of solemnity, almost of awe, in his voice. This anchorite seemed nearer sixty than thirty-five. "Yes, I remember her perfectly--a charming girl. She had suffered some injury to her face during an attack by Indians on her father's ranch. Of course, you are her father?" "Yes. But, tell me, Mr. Power--have you any notion of the extraordinary appearance you present? You force me to be blunt. You look like a man nearly twice your age." "Lend me a scissors and a razor, and I shall remove a decade or two. Remember, I have lived as an Indian for seven years." "I'll do more than that. I can give you some clothes and boots. God bless my soul! how surprised Meg will be! I recollect now she told me that her Mr. Power walked with a limp. But it's a far cry to Carmen. I----" "Carmen, did you say?" "Yes, why?" Power had suddenly recalled the name of the stuffy little tramp on which he set forth from Valparaiso. What memories crowded in on him, what a record of suffering and achievement! Seven years! He knew now that his pilgrimage was ended. The great world had thrown wide its gates again. He could go back to his own country, his own people. His sacrifice had been accepted. He was assoilized. He thought of his mother, of Nancy, and tears glistened in his eyes. He believed that some lesion had been lifted off his brain. He looked at the great facts of existence with a new and saner vision. He almost heard a vibrant and majestic voice saying to his spirit, "Go, and sin no more! Thy faith hath made thee whole!" He rose, and was dimly aware that Sinclair was pressing him to stay. There was so much to discuss yet, so many vital matters to weigh and debate; but he managed to explain that he must depart now, and would return later. "You don't understand that you are here on sufferance," he said. "I had to stretch my domination to the utmost--and I am a king among these Indians--to stop them from attacking you. Your life, and the lives of every man in your party, are not worth a day's purchase if my influence is weakened. I cannot tell what evil counsel may be given to these wild folk in my absence. If I show myself, and assure them that I am safe, and that you mean to retreat almost at once, they will be satisfied, and bloodshed will be averted." Sinclair glanced at him curiously, but did not seek further to prevent his immediate departure.