Still holding the pistol up, the stranger now advanced deliberately until he came to a halt about two paces from Zeb, who, with white face and set jaw, waited for the end.  The eyes of the two men met, and neither flinched.

“Strip,” commanded the stranger.  “Strip—­take off that jersey.”

“Why not kill me without ado?  Man, isn’t this cruel?”

“Strip, I say.”

Zeb stared at him for half a minute, like a man in a trance; and began to pull the jersey off.

“Now your shirt.  Strip—­till you are naked as a babe.”

Zeb obeyed.  The other laid his pistol down on the turf, and also proceeded to undress, until the two men stood face to face, stark naked.

“We were thus, or nearly thus, a month ago, when you gave me my life.  Does it strike you that, barring our faces, we might be twin brothers?  Now, get into my clothes, and toss me over your own!”

“What’s the meanin’ o’t?” stammered Zeb, hoarsely.

“I am about to cry quits with you.  Hurry; for the bride must be at the church by this.”

“What’s the meanin’ o’t?” Zeb repeated.

“Why, that you shall marry the girl.  Steady—­don’t tremble.  The banns are up in your name, and you shall walk into church, and the woman shall be married to Zebedee Minards.  Stop, don’t say a word, or I’ll repent and blow your brains out.  You want to know who I am, and what’s to become of me.  Suppose I’m the Devil; suppose I’m your twin soul, and in exchange for my life have given you the half of manhood that you lacked and I possessed; suppose I’m just a deserter from his Majesty’s fleet, a poor devil of a marine, with gifts above his station, who ran away and took to privateering, and was wrecked at your doors.  Suppose that I am really Zebedee Minards; or suppose that I heard your name spoken in Sheba kitchen, and took a fancy to wear it myself.  Suppose that I shall vanish to-day in a smell of brimstone; or that I shall leave in irons in the hold of the frigate now in Troy harbour.  What’s her name?”

He was dressed by this time in Zeb’s old clothes.

“The Recruit.”

“Whither bound?”

“Back to Plymouth to-night, an’ then to the West Indies wi’ a convoy.”

“Hurry, then; don’t fumble, or Ruby’ll be tired of waiting.  You’ll find a pencil and scrap of paper in my breast pocket.  Hand them over.”

Zeb did so, and the stranger, seating himself again on the slope, tore the paper in half, and began to scribble a few lines on each piece.  By the time he had finished and folded them up, Zeb stood before him dressed in the plum-coloured suit.

“Ay,” said the stranger, looking him up and down, and sucking the pencil contemplatively; “she’ll marry you out of hand.”

“I doubt it.”