While I looked and allowed myself to drift with the idle crowd, content to be an atom in the swirling torrent, I suddenly set eyes on a face that gave me the first genuine thrill of pleasure known for many a long, weary day. My languor was gone, as one might cast aside a useless mantle, and eagerly I began to buffet and push a passage through the crowd in the direction of the man who clung to the equestrian statue of the Liberator and surveyed the wonderful scene with marked interest.
More than one black scowl followed my rather rude passage; perhaps, in my eagerness to advance I was not as polite as these good people would like; and they had no especial love for a Yankee at any time.
All the while I kept my eyes riveted upon the man who occupied the exalted perch, and finally, panting from my exertions, I was in a position to pull at his coat.
He looked down curiously.
“Hello!”
There was nothing of recognition in the exclamation—it was rather in the shape of an interrogative, such as might be expected from a man whose attention has been so unceremoniously attracted.
“Robbins—old fellow—awful glad to see you.”
Again he said, “Hello!” but this time with just-awakened interest, bending his head to peer down at me, and finally dropping to the ground, where he could look into my face.
As he suddenly recognized me he gave a shout that sprang straight from the heart, and immediately seized upon my extended hand, squeezing it until I was almost fain to wince under the pressure.
“Morgan Kenneth, and alive! This is the land of enchantment, sure enough. I can scarce believe my eyes. You, that I believed had found a grave under the wild waves in that hurricane at Samoa! God bless you, my boy! I’m delighted to see you again. If it had been my own brother I don’t believe I’d have grieved more. And you’re really alive?”