"Well, as we come across,—lor-a-massy how de storm did storm, and de snow did snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched by de har ob his head, a young white gemman, who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young white gemman, Massa Fulmer,—" he pointed over his shoulder, "am out dar!"
"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin Fulmer, and he shook with the conflict of hope and suspense,—"whom did you rescue?"
"Dar's de white pusson," said Old Royal.
Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, whose face was rosy with joy, whose bonnet had fallen on her neck, while her hair, glittering with snow-drops, strayed over her shoulders,—leaning on the arm of his wife, Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through the doorway, and advanced toward the group.
He was clad in black, which threw his pale face, shaded by brown hair, boldly into view. His eyes were clear and brilliant; his lip firm. As he advanced, every eye remarked the resemblance between him and the Legate; and also between him, and the disguised girl, who stood by the Legate's side.
"Rescued from death by the hands of this good friend,—" his voice was clear and bold, "I returned home, and found the note which you,—" he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused to be left there. And in obedience to the request contained in that note, I am here."
At first completely thunderstruck, the venerable man had not power to frame a word.
"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed fatality! I knew that Providence would not desert us! Come to my heart, my child! Carl,—" trembling with emotion, he took Nameless by the hand, "Carl, behold your father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years, has appeared among us, like one risen from the grave! Behold your sister, born like you, in your mother's death-agony,—separated from you for twenty-one years,—she now rejoins you, in presence of your father!"
It was now the turn of Nameless to stand spell-bound and thunderstruck. He stood like one in a dream, until the voices of the Legate and the young girl broke on his ear, voices so like his own.
"My son!"