e. We were
weary, too, and hungry, and nothing remained to do but light the camp
fire, cook our supper, and listen to Billy's tale of his adventures,
a good part of which will be found in the following chapter. I ought
to say, rather, that Billy and I conversed, while Marc'antonio--for
we spoke in English--sat by the fire busy with his own thoughts; and,
by his face, they were gloomy ones.

"What puzzles me, Billy," said I, as we parted for the night, "is who
can be aboard of the ketch. Reinforcements? Why, what
reinforcements could my uncle send?"

"The devil a one of me knows, as the Irishman said," answered Billy,
cheerfully. "But sent 'em he has, and, if I know anything of
Mr. Gervase, they're good ones."

I was up before dawn, and the sun rose over the shoulder of our
mountain to find me a mile and more on my way down the track which
led to the sea. I passed the clearing and the copse where Nat had
taken his wound, and the rock, high on my right, where I had stood
and spied him running, the _macchia-filled hollows and dingles, the
wood, the village (still desolate), the graveyard where we had first
encamped; and so came to the meadow below it, where Mr. Fett had
gathered his mushrooms. It was greener than I remembered it, owing
to the autumn rains.

I pulled up with a start. At the foot of the meadow, where the
stream ran in a curve between it and the woods, stood a man.
He held a fishing-rod in his hand, and was stepping back to make a
cast; but, at a cry from me, paused and turned slowly about.

"Uncle Gervase!"

"My _dear_ Prosper!" He dropped his rod and advanced, holding out
his hands to me. "Why lad, lad, you have grown to a man in these
months!"

"And it really is you, uncle!" I cried again, as yet scarcely
believing it, though I clasped him by both hands. "And what are
_you_ doing here?"

"Why," said he, quizzically, "'tis a monstrous confession for this
time of the year, but I was fishing for trout; and, what is more, I
have taken two, with Walton's number two June-fly, lad--Mr. Grylls's
variety--the wings, if you remember, made of the black drake's
feathers, with a touch of grey horsehair on the shank. I wished to
know, first, if a Corsican trout would answer to a Cornish fly, and,
next, if they keep the same seasons as in England. They do,
Prosper--there or thereabouts. To tell you the truth--though, as
they say an angler may catch a fish, but it takes a fisherman to tell
the