he saw in him, besides, the hunter who was tracking him down.  Vendale, on the other hand, always contending generously against his first vague mistrust, now felt bound to contend against it more than ever:  reminding himself, “He is Marguerite’s guardian.  We are on perfectly friendly terms; he is my companion of his own proposal, and can have no interested motive in sharing this undesirable journey.”  To which pleas in behalf of Obenreizer, chance added one consideration more, when they came to Basle after a journey of more than twice the average duration.

They had had a late dinner, and were alone in an inn room there, overhanging the Rhine:  at that place rapid and deep, swollen and loud.  Vendale lounged upon a couch, and Obenreizer walked to and fro:  now, stopping at the window, looking at the crooked reflection of the town lights in the dark water (and peradventure thinking, “If I could fling him into it!"); now, resuming his walk with his eyes upon the floor.

“Where shall I rob him, if I can?  Where shall I murder him, if I must?” So, as he paced the room, ran the river, ran the river, ran the river.

The burden seemed to him, at last, to be growing so plain, that he stopped; thinking it as well to suggest another burden to his companion.

“The Rhine sounds to-night,” he said with a smile, “like the old waterfall at home.  That waterfall which my mother showed to travellers (I told you of it once).  The sound of it changed with the weather, as does the sound of all falling waters and flowing waters.  When I was pupil of the watchmaker, I remembered it as sometimes saying to me for whole days, ’Who are you, my little wretch?  Who are you, my little wretch?’ I remembered it as saying, other times, when its sound was hollow, and storm was coming up the Pass:  ’Boom, boom, boom.  Beat him, beat him, beat him.’  Like my mother enraged—­if she was my mother.”

“If she was?” said Vendale, gradually changing his attitude to a sitting one.  “If she was?  Why do you say ’if’?”

“What do I know?” replied the other negligently, throwing up his hands and letting them fall as they would.  “What would you have?  I am so obscurely born, that how can I say?  I was very young, and all the rest of the family were men and women, and my so-called parents were old.  Anything is possible of a case like that.”

“Did you ever doubt—­”

“I told you once, I doubt the marriage of those two,” he replied, throwing up his hands again, as if he were throwing the unprofitable subject away.  “But here I am in Creation. I come of no fine family.  What does it matter?”

“At least you are Swiss,” said Vendale, after following him with his eyes to and fro.

“How do I know?” he retorted abruptly, and stopping to look back over his shoulder.  “I say to you, at least you are English.  How do you know?”

“By what I have been told from infancy.”