they dead?" inquired Bois-Rose, with an air
of interest.

"I never knew either of them," answered the young man in a sad voice.

"You have never known them!" cried the Canadian, rising suddenly, and
laying hold of a blazing fagot, which he held up to the face of
Tiburcio.

This fagot, light as it was, appeared as if a hundredweight in the hand
of the giant, that trembled like an aspen, under the convulsive emotions
that were agitating his bosom. He held the flame closed to the
countenance of the young man, and scanned his features with eager
anxiety.

"But surely," said he, "you at least know in what country you were
born?"

"I do not," answered Tiburcio. "But why do you ask me? What
interest--"

"Fabian! Fabian!" interrupted Bois-Rose, in a soft, appealing tone, as
if he was speaking to an infant--"what has become of you?"

"Fabian!" repeated the young man; "I do not know the name."

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the Canadian, as if speaking to himself, "since
this name recalls nothing to him, it is not he! Why did I indulge in
such a foolish hope? And yet his features are just as Fabian's should
be at his age. Pardon me," he continued, addressing himself to
Tiburcio--"pardon me, young friend. I am a fool! I have lost my
senses!"

And throwing the fagot back upon the fire, he returned to his seat,
placing himself with his back to the light, so that his countenance was
concealed from the eyes of his companion.

Both were for some minutes silent. Tiburcio was endeavouring to
penetrate the past, and recall some vague reminiscences of infancy, that
still lingered in his memory. The widow of Arellanos had told him all
she knew of his early history--of the gigantic sailor who had nursed
him; but it never occurred to Tiburcio that the great trapper by his
side, a _coureur de bois_ of the American wilderness--could ever have
been a seaman--much less that one of whom he had heard and read, and who
was believed to have been his father. The strange interest which the
trapper had exhibited and the questions he had asked were attributed by
him to mere benevolence. He had no idea that the latter referred to any
one whom he had formerly known, and who was now lost to him; for
Bois-Rose had as yet told him nothing of his own history.

As Tiburcio continued to direct his thoughts upon the past, certain
vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory. They were only
dim shadows, resembling the retrospect o