“And there’s another as much in the dark as you are,” said Fred, pointing to Reginald Mortimer. “You perhaps imagine you are dreaming, and I know he wishes he was, don’t you, captain? There are two of us here whom you never expected to see in the flesh again; are there not? Take your time, Julian, and think the matter over, and while you are about it I will look around and pack up a few articles that may be of use to you, for we are going to find new quarters for you now.”
Julian settled back in a chair and gazed long and earnestly at all the persons in the room—at the old Mexican who stood at his side leaning upon his staff; at Silas, sitting upon the bed and smiling complacently at him as if he enjoyed his bewilderment; at Reginald Mortimer, lying bound and helpless on the floor, and who, like Julian, was almost overwhelmed with astonishment; and then at his brother, who was skipping about the room, overhauling the bureau, wardrobe and book-case, now and then depositing some articles which he took from them upon a blanket he had spread on the floor.
“My brother!” said Julian aloud. “How strangely it sounds.”
“Doesn’t it!” replied Fred, pausing in his work and looking over his shoulder at Julian. “But it is the truth. I don’t know what you think about it, but I am delighted to claim the relationship. A brother is something worth having out here in this wilderness, I tell you.”
“What is your name?” asked Julian.
“Fred—White-horse Fred, if it suits you better—sworn agent for a band of outlaws and rascals of which our worthy uncle here is the acknowledged leader. Any objections to my company?”
“Then you are not dead?”
“Do I look like it?”
“And you are not Julian Mortimer?”
“By no means. How could I be when you are that lucky individual?”