man, and Gwynplaine to
observe him.

They had a great friend in this unknown visitor.

Ursus and Gwynplaine wanted to know him; at least, to know who he was.

One evening Ursus was in the side scene, which was the kitchen-door of
the Green Box, seeing Master Nicless standing by him, showed him this
man in the crowd, and asked him,--

"Do you know that man?"

"Of course I do."

"Who is he?"

"A sailor."

"What is his name?" said Gwynplaine, interrupting.

"Tom-Jim-Jack," replied the inn-keeper.

Then as he redescended the steps at the back of the Green Box, to enter
the inn, Master Nicless let fall this profound reflection, so deep as to
be unintelligible,--

"What a pity that he should not be a lord. He would make a famous
scoundrel."

Otherwise, although established in the tavern, the group in the Green
Box had in no way altered their manner of living, and held to their
isolated habits. Except a few words exchanged now and then with the
tavern-keeper, they held no communication with any of those who were
living, either permanently or temporarily, in the inn; and continued to
keep to themselves.

Since they had been at Southwark, Gwynplaine had made it his habit,
after the performance and the supper of both family and horses--when
Ursus and Dea had gone to bed in their respective compartments--to
breathe a little the fresh air of the bowling-green, between eleven
o'clock and midnight.

A certain vagrancy in our spirits impels us to take walks at night, and
to saunter under the stars. There is a mysterious expectation in youth.
Therefore it is that we are prone to wander out in the night, without an
object.

At that hour there was no one in the fair-ground, except, perhaps, some
reeling drunkard, making staggering shadows in dark corners. The empty
taverns were shut up, and the lower room in the Tadcaster Inn was dark,
except where, in some corner, a solitary candle lighted a last reveller.
An indistinct glow gleamed through the window-shutters of the
half-closed tavern, as Gwynplaine, pensive, content, and dreaming, happy
in a haze of divine joy, passed backwards and forwards in front of the
half-open door.

Of what was he thinking? Of Dea--of nothing--of everything--of the
depths.

He never wandered far from the Green Box, being held, as by a thread, to
Dea. A few steps away from it was far enough for him.

Then he returned, found the whole Green Box asleep, and went to bed
himself.