"It will serve for one who has no other to give," said the stranger. "He
that is without name, without friends, without coin, without country, is
still at least a man; and he that has all these is no more."

"Yet this is still too general an account of yourself, to say the least
of it, to establish your credit with a stranger."

"It is all I mean to give, howsoe'er; you may choose to follow me, or to
remain without the information I desire to afford you."

"Can you not give me that information here?" I demanded.

"You must receive it from your eyes, not from my tongue--you must follow
me, or remain in ignorance of the information which I have to give you."

There was something short, determined, and even stern, in the man's
manner, not certainly well calculated to conciliate undoubting
confidence.

"What is it you fear?" he said impatiently. "To whom, think ye, is your
life of such consequence, that they should seek to bereave ye of it?"

"I fear nothing," I replied firmly, though somewhat hastily. "Walk on--I
attend you."

We proceeded, contrary to my expectation, to re-enter the town, and
glided like mute spectres, side by side, up its empty and silent streets.
The high and gloomy stone fronts, with the variegated ornaments and
pediments of the windows, looked yet taller and more sable by the
imperfect moonshine. Our walk was for some minutes in perfect silence. At