“Ralph Cranfield!” was the name that she half articulated.

“Can that be my old playmate Faith Egerton?” thought the traveller, looking round at her figure, but without pausing.

Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself marked out for a high destiny.  He had imbibed the idea—­we say not whether it were revealed to him by witchcraft or in a dream of prophecy, or that his brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a sybil, but he had imbibed the idea, and held it firmest among his articles of faith—­that three marvellous events of his life were to be confirmed to him by three signs.

The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on which his youthful imagination had dwelt most fondly, was the discovery of the maid who alone of all the maids on earth could make him happy by her love.  He was to roam around the world till he should meet a beautiful woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a heart—­whether of pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle or a changeful opal, or perhaps a priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so long as it were a heart of one peculiar shape.  On encountering this lovely stranger he was bound to address her thus:  “Maiden, I have brought you a heavy heart.  May I rest its weight on you?” And if she were his fated bride—­if their kindred souls were destined to form a union here below which all eternity should only bind more closely—­she would reply, with her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, “This token which I have worn so long is the assurance that you may.”

And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that there was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of which the burial-place would be revealed to none but him.  When his feet should press upon the mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him pointing downward—­whether carved of marble or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of a rocky precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air, he could not tell, but at least he would discern a hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath it the Latin word “Effode”—­“Dig!” And, digging thereabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, or of whatever else the treasure might consist, would be certain to reward his toil.

The third and last of the miraculous events in the life of this high-destined man was to be the attainment of extensive influence and sway over his fellow-creatures.  Whether he were to be a king and founder of a hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a people contending for their freedom, or the apostle of a purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity to show.  As messengers of the sign by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize the summons, three venerable men were to claim audience of him.  The chief among them—­a dignified and majestic person arrayed, it may be supposed, in the flowing garments of an ancient sage—­would be the bearer of a wand or prophet’s rod.  With this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage would trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make known his Heaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must lead to glorious results.