LITMIR.BIZ

       A few days later, on the 3rd of November, the stranger, working on the plateau, had stopped, letting his spade drop to the ground, and Harding who was observing him from a little distance, saw that tears were again flowing from his eyes. A sort of irresistible pity led him towards the unfortunate man, and he touched his arm lightly.

      "My friend!" said he.

      The stranger tried to avoid his look, and Cyrus Harding, having endeavoured to take his hand, he drew back quickly.

      "My friend," said Harding in a firmer voice, "look at me, I wish it!"

      The stranger looked at the engineer, and seemed to be under his power, as a subject under the influence of a mesmerist. He wished to run away. But then his countenance suddenly underwent a transformation. His eyes flashed. Words struggled to escape from his lips. He could no longer contain himself!... At last he folded his arms, then, in a hollow voice,—

      "Who are you?" he asked Cyrus Harding.

      "Castaways, like you," replied the engineer, whose emotion was deep. "We have brought you here, among your fellow-men."

      "My fellow-men!... I have none!"

      "You are in the midst of friends."

      "Friends!—for me! friends!" exclaimed the stranger, hiding his face in his hands. "No—never—leave me! leave me!"

      Then he rushed to the side of the plateau which overlooked the sea, and remained there a long time motionless.

      Harding rejoined his companions and related to them what had just happened.

      "Yes! there is some mystery in that man's life," said Gideon Spilett, "and it appears as if he had only re-entered society by the path of remorse."

      "I don't know what sort of a man we have brought here," said the sailor. "He has secrets—"

      "Which we will respect," interrupted Cyrus Harding quickly. "If he has committed any crime, he has most fearfully expiated it, and in our eyes he is absolved."

      For two hours the stranger remained alone on the shore, evidently under the influence of recollections which recalled all his past life—a melancholy life doubtless—and the colonists, without losing sight of him, did not attempt to disturb his solitude. However, after two hours, appearing to have formed a resolution, he came to find Cyrus Harding. His eyes were red with the tears he had shed, but he wept no longer. His countenance expressed deep humility. He appeared anxious, timorous, ashamed, and his eyes were constantly fixed on the ground.

      "Sir," said he to Harding, "your companions and you, are you English?"

      "No," answered the engineer, "we are Americans."

      "Ah!" said the stranger, and he murmured, "I prefer that!"

      "And you, my friend?" asked the engineer.

      "English," replied he hastily.

      And as if these few words had been difficult to say, he retreated to the beach, where he walked up and down between the cascade and the mouth of the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation.

      Then, passing one moment close to Herbert, he stopped, and in a stifled voice,—

      "What month?" he asked.

      "December," replied Herbert.

      "What year?"

      "1866."

      "Twelve years! twelve years!" he exclaimed.

      Then he left him abruptly.

      Herbert reported to the colonists the questions and answers which had been made.

      "This unfortunate man," observed Gideon Spilett, "was no longer acquainted with either months or years!"

      "Yes!" added Herbert, "and he had been twelve years already on the islet when we found him there!"

      "Twelve years!" rejoined Harding. "Ah! twelve years of solitude, after a wicked life, perhaps, may well impair a man's reason!"

      "I am induced to think," said Pencroft, "that this man was not wrecked on Tabor Island, but that in consequence of some crime he was left there."

      "You must be right, Pencroft," replied the reporter, "and if it is so it is not impossible that those who left him on the island may return to fetch him some day!"

      "And they will no longer find him," said Herbert.

      "But then," added Pencroft, "they must return, and—"

      "My friends," said Cyrus Harding, "do not let us discuss this question until we know more about it. I believe that the unhappy man has suffered, that he has severely expiated his faults, whatever they may have been, and that the wish to unburden himself stifles him. Do not let us press him to tell us his history! He will tell it to us doubtless, and when we know it, we shall see what course it will be best to follow. He alone besides can tell us, if he has more than a hope, a certainty, of returning some day to his country, but I doubt it!"

      "And why?" asked the reporter.

      "Because that, in the event of his being sure of being delivered at a certain time, he would have waited

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