"What's the meanin' o't?" stammered Zeb, hoarsely.
"I am about to cry quits with you. Hurry; for the bride must be at the church by this."
"What's the meanin' o't?" Zeb repeated.
"Why, that you shall marry the girl. Steady—don't tremble. The banns are up in your name, and you shall walk into church, and the woman shall be married to Zebedee Minards. Stop, don't say a word, or I'll repent and blow your brains out. You want to know who I am, and what's to become of me. Suppose I'm the Devil; suppose I'm your twin soul, and in exchange for my life have given you the half of manhood that you lacked and I possessed; suppose I'm just a deserter from his Majesty's fleet, a poor devil of a marine, with gifts above his station, who ran away and took to privateering, and was wrecked at your doors. Suppose that I am really Zebedee Minards; or suppose that I heard your name spoken in Sheba kitchen, and took a fancy to wear it myself. Suppose that I shall vanish to-day in a smell of brimstone; or that I shall leave in irons in the hold of the frigate now in Troy harbour. What's her name?"
He was dressed by this time in Zeb's old clothes.
"The Recruit."
"Whither bound?"
"Back to Plymouth to-night, an' then to the West Indies wi' a convoy."
"Hurry, then; don't fumble, or Ruby'll be tired of waiting. You'll find a pencil and scrap of paper in my breast pocket. Hand them over."
Zeb did so, and the stranger, seating himself again on the slope, tore the paper in half, and began to scribble a few lines on each piece. By the time he had finished and folded them up, Zeb stood before him dressed in the plum-coloured suit.