The stranger was a tall, finely-formed, dark-complexioned and very handsome man, notwithstanding that his raven hair was streaked with silver, his brow lined with thought, and his fine black eyes rather hollow. A full black beard nearly covered the lower part of his face.
"Mr. Lyle," said the visitor, holding out his hand.
"That is my name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said the minister.
"You do not know me?" inquired the stranger in sad surprise.
"I do not, indeed."
"I am Victor Hartman!"
Chapter XVI.
THE RETURNED EXILE.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,
Soon change the form that best we know;
For deadly fear can time outgo,
And blanch at once the hair;
Hard time can roughen form and face,
And grief can quench the eyes' bright grace;
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace
More deeply than despair.