One morning when I was dwelling in a cave between a mountain and a river I met him who tells this story.  Probably the reader has never lived in a cave and does not appreciate cave life—­the crawling in at night, the long and gentle sleep on the soft grey sand, the crawling out again at morning, the washing in the river, the stick-collecting and kettle-boiling, the berry-gathering, the lazy hours of noon, the lying outstretched on the springy turf, sun-drinking, the wading in the river and the plashing of the rushing water over one’s legs; sunny days, grey days, rainy days, the joyous delight in the beautiful world, the exploration of one’s own heart, the sadness of self-absorption.

It was on a grey day when I met the strange tramp whose life-mystery is here told.  I came upon him on a quiet forenoon, and was surprised by him.  He came, as it were, out of thin air.  I had been looking at the river with eyes that saw not—­I was exploring my own heart and its memories—­when suddenly I turned round and saw him, smiling, with a greeting on his countenance.

It was long since I had looked upon a man; for though quite near the highway, no one had found me out in my snug cave.  I was like a bird that had built a nest within earshot of a road along which many schoolboys ran.  And any one discovering my little house was like to say, “Fancy, so near to the road, so unsuspected!”

“Good-morning, friend,” said I, “and greeting!  You are the first who has found his way to this cave.  You are a wanderer like myself, I perceive.  Come, then, and share my noonday solitude, and in return give me what you have to share.”

“Forgive me,” said he, “I thought I heard a voice; that was why I came.  I thought I heard a call, a cry.”

I looked at him.  He was a strange man, but with something peculiarly familiar in his figure.  His dark hair spread over a brow whiter than mine, and veiled two deep and gentle eyes; and his sun-tanned face and dusty hat made him look like a face such as one sometimes sees in a dream.

“You heard not me,” I answered, “unless it was my thoughts that you heard.”

He smiled.  I felt we need not say more.  I sat with my back to the sun and he lay stretched in front of me, and thus we conversed; thus two wanderers conversed, two like spirits whose paths had crossed.

“Now tell me,” said I, “who you are, dear wanderer, stretched out at my feet like a shadow, and like a shadow of my own life.  How long have you been upon the road, when did you set out, where is your home and why did you leave it?”

The tramp smiled.

“I am a wanderer and a seeker,” he replied.  “In one sense the whole world is my home, in that I know all its roads and am nowhere a stranger.  In another sense I have no home, for I know not where I began or where I come from.  I do not belong to this world.”

“What!” said I, starting up suddenly and consequently disturbing my companion.  “You are then an apparition, a dream-face, a shadow.  You came out of thin air!”