"Methinks a shadow would have made a fitting doorkeeper to such a
museum," said I; "although, indeed, yonder figure has something
strange and fantastic about him, which suits well enough with many
of the impressions which I have received here. Pray, who is he?"

While speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before at the
antiquated presence of the person who had admitted me, and who still
sat on his bench with the same restless aspect, and dim, confused,
questioning anxiety that I had noticed on my first entrance. At
this moment he looked eagerly towards us, and, half starting from
his seat, addressed me.

"I beseech you, kind sir," said he, in a cracked, melancholy tone,
"have pity on the most unfortunate man in the world. For Heaven's
sake, answer me a single question! Is this the town of Boston?"

"You have recognized him now," said the virtuoso. "It is Peter
Rugg, the missing man. I chanced to meet him the other day still in
search of Boston, and conducted him hither; and, as he could not
succeed in finding his friends, I have taken him into my service as
doorkeeper. He is somewhat too apt to ramble, but otherwise a man
of trust and integrity."

"And might I venture to ask," continued I, "to whom am I indebted
for this afternoon's gratification?"

The virtuoso, before replying, laid his hand upon an antique dart,
or javelin, the rusty steel head of winch seemed to have been
blunted, as if it had encountered the resistance of a tempered
shield, or breastplate.