"Joseph Tryan!"

He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on
his shoulder, and say:

"Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? The
boys--George! Are they here? are they safe?"

He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we
involuntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm and quiet glance,
free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdling
through our veins. He bowed his head over his book again, taking no
further notice of us. The men look at me compassionately, and hold their
peace. I make one more effort:

"Joseph Tryan, don't you know me? the surveyor who surveyed your
ranch--the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!"

He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. Presently he
repeated to himself "The surveyor who surveyed your ranch--Espiritu
Santo" over and over again, as though it were a lesson he was trying to
fix in his memory.

I was turning sadly to the boatmen when he suddenly caught me fearfully
by the hand and said:

"Hush!"

We were silent.