"The name Luttrell is as much a disguise as any other," said Brian, shortly. "But you may use it if you choose." He was hardly prepared, however, for the round eyes with which the lad Barry regarded him when he next entered the log hut, nor for the awkward way in which he gave a bashful smile and pulled the front lock of his hair when Brian spoke to him. "What are you doing that for?" he said, quickly. "Well, sir, it's Mr. Heron's orders," said Barry. "What orders?" "That we're to remember you're a gentleman, sir. Gone steerage in a bit of a freak; but now you've told him you'd prefer to be called by your proper name. Mr. Luttrell, that is." "I'm no more a gentleman than you are," said Brian, abruptly. "Call me Mackay at once as you used to do." Barry shook his head with a knowing look. "Daren't sir. Mr. Heron is a gentleman that will have his own way. And he said you had a big estate in Scotland, sir; and lots of money." "What other tales did he tell you?" said Brian, throwing back his head restlessly. "Well, I don't know, sir. Only he told us that we'd better nurse you up as well as we could before we left the island, and that there was one at home as would give money to see you alive and well. A lady, I think he meant." "What insane folly!" muttered Brian to himself. "Look here, Barry," he added aloud, "Mr. Heron was making jokes at your expense and mine. He meant nothing of the kind; I haven't a penny in the world, and I'm on the way to the Brazils to earn my living as a working-man. Now do you understand?" Barry retired, silenced but unconvinced. And the next time that Brian saw Percival alone, he said to him drily:-- "I would rather make my own romances about my future life, if it's all the same to you." "Eh? What? What do you mean?" "Don't tell these poor fellows that I have property in Scotland, please. It is not the case." "Oh, that's what you're making a fuss about. But I can't help it," said Percival, shrugging his shoulders. "If you are Brian Luttrell, as Vasari swears you are--swearing it to his own detriment, too, which inclines me to believe that it is true--the Strathleckie estate is yours." "You can't prove that I am Brian Luttrell." "But I might prove--when we get back to Scotland--that you bore the name of Brian Luttrell for three or four-and-twenty years of your life." "I am not going back to Scotland," said the young man, looking steadily and attentively at Percival's troubled countenance. "Yes, you are. I promised that you should come back, and you must not make me break my word." "Whom did you promise?" "I promised Elizabeth." And then the two men felt that the conversation had better cease. Percival walked rapidly away, while Brian, who could not walk anywhere, lay flat on his back and listened, with dreamy eyes, to the long monotonous rise and fall of the waves upon the shore. CHAPTER XXXIX. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.