What was the mystery of his life?  Would the stranger one day speak of it?  Time alone could show.  At any rate, it was agreed that his secret should never be asked from him, and that they would live with him as if they suspected nothing.

For some days their life continued as before.  Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett worked together, sometimes chemists, sometimes experimentalists.  The reporter never left the engineer except to hunt with Herbert, for it would not have been prudent to allow the lad to ramble alone in the forest; and it was very necessary to be on their guard.  As to Neb and Pencroft, one day at the stables and poultry-yard, another at the corral, without reckoning work in Granite House, they were never in want of employment.

The stranger worked alone, and he had resumed his usual life, never appearing at meals, sleeping under the trees in the plateau, never mingling with his companions.  It really seemed as if the society of those who had saved him was insupportable to him!

“But then,” observed Pencroft, “why did he entreat the help of his fellow-creatures?  Why did he throw that paper into the sea?”

“He will tell us why,” invariably replied Cyrus Harding.

“When?”

“Perhaps sooner than you think, Pencroft.”

And, indeed, the day of confession was near.

On the 10th of December, a week after his return to Granite House, Harding saw the stranger approaching, who, in a calm voice and humble tone, said to him:  “Sir, I have a request to make of you.”

“Speak,” answered the engineer, “but first let me ask you a question.”

At these words the stranger reddened, and was on the point of withdrawing.  Cyrus Harding understood what was passing in the mind of the guilty man, who doubtless feared that the engineer would interrogate him on his past life.

Harding held him back.

“Comrade,” said he, “we are not only your companions but your friends.  I wish you to believe that, and now I will listen to you.”

The stranger pressed his hand over his eyes.  He was seized with a sort of trembling, and remained a few moments without being able to articulate a word.

“Sir,” said he at last, “I have come to beg you to grant me a favor.”

“What is it?”

“You have, four or five miles from here, a corral for your domesticated animals.  These animals need to be taken care of.  Will you allow me to live there with them?”

Cyrus Harding gazed at the unfortunate man for a few moments with a feeling of deep commiseration; then,—­

“My friend,” said he, “the corral has only stables hardly fit for animals.”

“It will be good enough for me, sir.”

“My friend,” answered Harding, “we will not constrain you in anything.  You wish to live at the corral, so be it.  You will, however, be always welcome at Granite House.  But since you wish to live at the corral we will make the necessary arrangements for your being comfortably established there.”