brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy drops, like dews
of agony and death. The countenance of the old locksmith lighted up with
the smile of one expecting to detect in this unpromising stranger some
latent roguery of eye or lip, which should reveal a familiar person in
that arch disguise, and spoil his jest. The face of the other, sullen
and fierce, but shrinking too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while
his firmly closed jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain
stealthy motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a
desperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child's play.

Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.

'Humph!' he said when he had scanned his features; 'I don't know you.'

'Don't desire to?'--returned the other, muffling himself as before.

'I don't,' said Gabriel; 'to be plain with you, friend, you don't carry
in your countenance a letter of recommendation.'

'It's not my wish,' said the traveller. 'My humour is to be avoided.'

'Well,' said the locksmith bluntly, 'I think you'll have your humour.'

'I will, at any cost,' rejoined the traveller. 'In proof of it, lay this
to heart--that you were never in such peril of your life as you have
been within these few moments; when you are within five minutes of
breathing your last, you will not be nearer death than you have been
to-night!'

'Aye!' said the sturdy locksmith.