n the dock near six years ago he had
greatly changed. The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and
solitary life had altered him beyond Charley's recognition.

Jo could hardly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he
knew that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple,
quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the
man who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not
acknowledge. Jo's brain was in a muddle. Now that the great crisis was
over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the
cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in
his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of
mist before them.

Meanwhile Charley's eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted.

"Is this your house?"

"It is, M'sieu'."

"You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion?" He still held his
head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his
companion.

"Yes, M'sieu'."

Charley's hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly
to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been
for these long months, handed it over. Charley took it and mechanically
put it in his eye. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "Have I been
conscious at all since you rescued me last night?" he asked.

"In a way, M'sieu'."

"Ah, well, I can't remember, but it was very kind of you--I do thank you
very much. Do you think you could find me something to eat? I beg your
pardon--it isn't breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hungry in
my life!"

"In a minute, M'sieu'--in one minute. But lie down, you must lie down a
little. You got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. You have had
nothing to eat."

"Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn't eat
anything at the Cote Dorion, I remember." He lay back on the couch and
closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he
felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so
restful in this place--a whole day's sleep and rest, how good it
would be after last night's racketing! Here was primitive and material
comfort, the secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor
hunter-fellow, with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day
by every day's labour, and, like Robinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a
serene self-sufficiency and an elysian re