“There may be some truth in the poor wretch’s story,” he said.  “I heard something of a strange boat having been cast on the beach thirty or forty miles higher up the coast.  When were you wrecked, my man?”

The starving creature looked up from his food, and made an effort to collect his thoughts—­to exert his memory.  It was not to be done.  He gave up the attempt in despair.  His language, when he spoke, was as wild as his looks.

“I can’t tell you,” he said.  “I can’t get the wash of the sea out of my ears.  I can’t get the shining stars all night, and the burning sun all day, out of my brain.  When was I wrecked?  When was I first adrift in the boat?  When did I get the tiller in my hand and fight against hunger and sleep?  When did the gnawing in my breast, and the burning in my head, first begin?  I have lost all reckoning of it.  I can’t think; I can’t sleep; I can’t get the wash of the sea out of my ears.  What are you baiting me with questions for?  Let me eat!”

Even the sailors pitied him.  The sailors asked leave of their officer to add a little drink to his meal.

“We’ve got a drop of grog with us, sir, in a bottle.  May we give it to him?”

“Certainly!”

He took the bottle fiercely, as he had taken the food, drank a little, stopped, and considered with himself again.  He held up the bottle to the light, and, marking how much liquor it contained, carefully drank half of it only.  This done, he put the bottle in his wallet along with the food.

“Are you saving it up for another time?” said Steventon.

“I’m saving it up,” the man answered.  “Never mind what for.  That’s my secret.”

He looked round the boat-house as he made that reply, and noticed Mrs. Crayford for the first time.

“A woman among you!” he said.  “Is she English?  Is she young?  Let me look closer at her.”

He advanced a few steps toward the table.

“Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Crayford,” said Steventon.

“I am not afraid,” Mrs. Crayford replied.  “He frightened me at first—­he interests me now.  Let him speak to me if he wishes it!”

He never spoke.  He stood, in dead silence, looking long and anxiously at the beautiful Englishwoman.

“Well?” said Steventon.

He shook his head sadly, and drew back again with a heavy sigh.

“No!” he said to himself, “that’s not her face.  No! not found yet.”

Mrs. Crayford’s interest was strongly excited.  She ventured to speak to him.

“Who is it you want to find?” she asked.  “Your wife?”

He shook his head again.

“Who, then?  What is she like?”

He answered that question in words.  His hoarse, hollow voice softened, little by little, into sorrowful and gentle tones.

“Young,” he said; “with a fair, sad face—­with kind, tender eyes—­with a soft, clear voice.  Young and loving and merciful.  I keep her face in my mind, though I can keep nothing else.  I must wander, wander, wander—­restless, sleepless, homeless—­till I find her! Over the ice and over the snow; tossing on the sea, tramping over the land; awake all night, awake all day; wander, wander, wander, till I find her!”