“I never remember to have seen either of them.”
“Your name?”
“Carew—Jasper Carew.”
“I recollect one of that name,” said he, pondering for some time. “But he could not have been your father. And how came you here?”
In a few words I told him of my adventure, and in doing so revealed such habits as appeared to interest him, for he questioned me closely about my wanderings, and the causes which at first suggested them. In turn I asked and learned from him that several weeks had elapsed since my accident; that numerous scouts had traversed the glen, evidently sent in search of me, but that for reasons which regarded himself he had not spoken with, nor, indeed, been seen by any of them, but still had written a few lines to the Curé of Reichenau to say that I was in safety, and should be soon restored to my friends. This he had conveyed to the post by night, but without suffering any clew to escape from whence it came.
“And these figures are yours?” said he, referring to the paper.
I nodded, and he went on:—
“What toilsome nights, boy, had I been spared if I had but detected this error! These mistakes have marred whole weeks of labor. I must have been ill. My head must have been suffering, to have fallen into error like this; for see, here are far deeper and more abstruse calculations,—all correct, all accurate. But who can answer for moments of weakness!”
He sighed heavily, and the stern expression of his features assumed a look of softened, but suffering meaning.
“I have often thought,” said he, hastily, “that if another were joined with me in this task, its completeness would be more certain; while to trust myself alone with this secret is both unwise and unjust. Human life is the least certain of all things. To-morrow I may be no more. I have already passed through enough to have brought many to the grave. You, however, are young. You have yet, in all likelihood, long years of life before you. What if you were to become my associate?”