To escape from the dreamy vacuity of my late life, by an actual occupation, was an unspeakable relief; and I felt in the pursuit all the interest of an adventurer. There was something positive, tangible, real, as it were, here, instead of that boundless expanse of doubt over which my mind had been wandering, and I addressed myself to the task with eagerness. The error first discovered had led to others, and I diligently traced out all its consequences; and making the fitting corrections, I set forth the results on a slip of paper that I found, happily, clear of figures.
So tired was I with the unaccustomed exertion that, when I had done, I had barely reached my bed ere I fell off in a deep and heavy sleep. I awoke late in the night, for so I judged it from the starry sky which I could see through the open window. The old man sat at his usual seat beside the desk, and, with his head supported by his hands, seemed to study the pages before him. The flickering lamplight that fell upon his worn features, his snow-white beard, his wrinkled forehead and thick-veined hands, together with the heavy folds of the cloak which, for warmth, he had thrown over his shoulders, made him resemble one of those alchemists or astrologers we see in Dutch pictures. I had not looked long at him till I saw that he was pondering over the corrections I had made, and trying to remember if they were by his own hand. At last he turned suddenly round, and fixed his eyes on me. Mine met the glance, and thus we remained for some seconds staring steadily at each other. He then rose slowly like one fatigued from exertion, and, with the paper in his hand, approached the bed. How my heart beat as he drew nigh! how I wondered what words he would utter, what accents he would speak in, and in what mood of mind!
He came slowly forward, and, seating himself beside my bed on the low stool, he pointed to the figures on the paper, and said, in the Romaic dialect of the mountaineers, the one word, “Yours?” Though the word was uttered in the peasant dialect, the tone of the voice was not that of a “Bauer;” and, reassured by thinking that he might be of superior condition, I answered him at once in French.
“Is that your native tongue?” said he, replying to me in the same language.
I shook my head in negative.
“You are a German boy, then?” said he.
“Nor that either,” replied I. “I am English.”
“English! you English, and in this place!” cried he, in astonishment. “From what part of England do you come?” said he, in English, which he spoke as a native.
“I came from Ireland. My father was of that country. My mother, I have heard, was French.”
“You have heard! So that you do not know it of yourself?”