"Ja."
A light seemed to stream across the old man's expressive features, and he asked, leaning forward to catch my words, whence I had come;
"Hvarifrån kommer Ni?"
"Jag kommer från England," I answered.
The old man rose from his seat, and said, in tolerable English, that he was glad to see me, (at which I was also delighted) and then begged, like all the inhabitants of Northern Europe, that I would shake hands with him. I did so, and taking my hand in his, he clapsed it firmer than I imagined he could, and looked into my face.
"You are not French?" he observed inquiringly.
"I am not."
"Then I am glad," and he pressed my hand again; then letting it drop, continued:
"I speak English, sir, but badly; and, yet, I always address an Englishman, and read an English book when I can get it, and, this one, in particular;" holding up to my view an old black book I had not observed.
"May I see it?" I said, and, taking the volume from his hand, a Bible fell open at the 8th chapter of Solomon's song. These two verses were marked by a line being drawn down the margin.