own I had begun to have my doubts of him, and to fear that he had absolutely disgraced himself.  Even in such case I,—I individually,—did not wish to be severe on him; but I should be annoyed to find that I had opened my heart to a swindler or a practised knave.

“I will tell you all to-morrow,” said he; “but I have been guilty of nothing of that sort.”

In the evening he did come out, and sat with me as I smoked my cigar.  The boat, he was told, would almost undoubtedly come in by daybreak on the following morning, and be off at nine; whereas it was very improbable that any arrival from Jerusalem would be so early as that.  “Beside,” I reminded him, “your uncle will hardly hurry down to Jaffa, because he will have no reason to think but what you have already started.  There are no telegraphs here, you know.”

In the evening he was still very sad, though the paroxysm of his terror seemed to have passed away.  I would not bother him, as he had himself chosen the following morning for the telling of his story.  So I sat and smoked, and talked to him about our past journey, and by degrees the power of speech came back to him, and I again felt that I loved him!  Yes, loved him!  I have not taken many such fancies into my head, at so short a notice; but I did love him, as though he were a younger brother.  I felt a delight in serving him, and though I was almost old enough to be his father, I ministered to him as though he had been an old man, or a woman.

On the following morning we were stirring at daybreak, and found that the vessel was in sight.  She would be in the roads off the town in two hours’ time, they said, and would start at eleven or twelve.  And then we walked round by the gate of the town, and sauntered a quarter of a mile or so along the way that leads towards Jerusalem.  I could see that his eye was anxiously turned down the road, but he said nothing.  We saw no cloud of dust, and then we returned to breakfast.

“The steamer has come to anchor,” said our dirty Polish host to us in execrable English.  “And we may be off on board,” said Smith.  “Not yet,” he said; “they must put their cargo out first.”  I saw, however, that Smith was uneasy, and I made up my mind to go off to the vessel at once.  When they should see an English portmanteau making an offer to come up the gangway, the Austrian sailors would not stop it.  So I called for the bill, and ordered that the things should be taken down to the wretched broken heap of rotten timber which they called a quay.  Smith had not told me his story, but no doubt he would as soon as he was on board.

I was in the act of squabbling with the Pole over the last demand for piastres, when we heard a noise in the gateway of the inn, and I saw Smith’s countenance become pale.  It was an Englishman’s voice asking if there were any strangers there; so I went into the courtyard, closing the door behind me, and turning the key upon the landlord and Smith.  “Smith,” said I to myself, “will keep the Pole quiet if he have any wit left.”

The man who had asked the question had the air of an upper English servant, and I thought that I recognised one of those whom I had seen with the old gentleman on the road; but the matter was soon put at rest by the appearance of that gentleman himself.  He walked up into the courtyard, looked hard at me from under those bushy eyebrows, just raised his hat, and then—said, “I believe I am speaking to Mr. Jones.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am Mr. Jones.  Can I have the honour of serving you?”

There was something peculiarly unpleasant about this man’s face.  At the present moment I examined it closely, and could understand the great aversion which his nephew felt towards him.  He looked like a gentleman and like a man of talent, nor was there anything of meanness in his face; neither was he ill-looking, in the usual acceptation of the word; but one could see that he was solemn, austere, and overbearing; that he would be incapable of any light enjoyment, and unforgiving towards all offences.  I took him to be a man who, being old himself, could never remember that he had been young, and who, therefore, hated the levities of youth.  To me such a character is specially odious; for I would fain, if it be possible, be young even to my grave.  Smith, if he were clever, might escape from the window of the room, which opened out upon a terrace, and still get down to the steamer.  I would keep the old man in play for some time; and, even though I lost my passage, would be true to my friend.  There lay our joint luggage at my feet in the yard.  If Smith would venture away without his portion of it, all might yet be right.