Strongly interested by this time, in studying Captain Bennydeck’s character on the side of it which was new to him, Randal owned that he observed with surprise the interest which his friend felt in perfect strangers.  The Captain seemed to wonder why this impression should have been produced by what he had just said.

“I only try,” he answered, “to do what good I can, wherever I go.”

“Your life must be a happy one,” Randal said.

Captain Bennydeck’s head drooped.  The shadows that attend on the gloom of melancholy remembrance showed their darkening presence on his face.  Briefly, almost sternly, he set Randal right.

“No, sir.”

“Forgive me,” the younger man pleaded, “if I have spoken thoughtlessly.”

“You have mistaken me,” the Captain explained; “and it is my fault.  My life is an atonement for the sins of my youth.  I have reached my fortieth year—­and that one purpose is before me for the rest of my days.  Sufferings and dangers which but few men undergo awakened my conscience.  My last exercise of the duties of my profession associated me with an expedition to the Polar Seas.  Our ship was crushed in the ice.  Our march to the nearest regions inhabited by humanity was a hopeless struggle of starving men, rotten with scurvy, against the merciless forces of Nature.  One by one my comrades dropped and died.  Out of twenty men there were three left with a last flicker in them of the vital flame when the party of rescue found us.  One of the three died on the homeward journey.  One lived to reach his native place, and to sink to rest with his wife and children round his bed.  The last man left, out of that band of martyrs to a hopeless cause, lives to be worthier of God’s mercy—­and tries to make God’s creatures better and happier in this world, and worthier of the world that is to come.”

Randal’s generous nature felt the appeal that had been made to it.  “Will you let me take your hand, Captain?” he said.

They clasped hands in silence.

Captain Bennydeck was the first to speak again.  That modest distrust of himself, which a man essentially noble and brave is generally the readiest of men to feel, seemed to be troubling him once more—­just as it had troubled him when he first found himself in Randal’s presence.

“I hope you won’t think me vain,” he resumed; “I seldom say so much about myself as I have said to you.”

“I only wish you would say more,” Randal rejoined.  “Can’t you put off your return to London for a day or two?”

The thing was not to be done.  Duties which it was impossible to trifle with called the Captain back.  “It’s quite likely,” he said, alluding pleasantly to the impression which he had produced in speaking of the Highlanders, “that I shall find more strangers to interest me in the great city.”

“Are they always strangers?” Randal asked.  “Have you never met by accident with persons whom you may once have known?”