He relapsed into reverie.  Ah!  Mr. MacGentle, are you again the tall and graceful youth, full of romance and fire, who roamed abroad in quest of adventures with your trusty friend Thor Helwyse, the yellow-bearded Scandinavian?  Do you fancy this fresh, unwrinkled face a mate to your own? and is it but the vision of a restless night,—­this long-drawn life of dull routine and gradual disappointment and decay?  Open those dim eyes of yours, good sir! stir those thin old legs! inflate that sunken chest!—­Ha! is that cough imaginary? those trembling muscles,—­are they a delusion is that misty glance only a momentary weakness There is no youth left in you, Mr. MacGentle; not so much as would keep a rose in bloom for an hour.

“Have you seen Doctor Glyphic lately?” inquired Helwyse, after a pause.

“Glyphic?—­do you know, I was thinking of him just now,—­of our first meeting with him in the African desert.  You remember!—­a couple of Bedouins were carrying him off,—­they had captured him on his way to some apocryphal ruin among the sand-heaps.  What a grand moment was that when you caught the Sheik round the throat with your umbrella-handle, and pulled him off his horse! and then we mounted poor Glyphic upon it,—­mummied cat and all,—­and away over the hot sand!  What a day was that! what a day was that!”

The speaker’s eyes had kindled; for a moment one saw the far flat desert, the struggling knot of men and horses, the stampede of the three across the plain, and the high sun flaming inextinguishable laughter-over all!—­and it had happened nigh forty years ago.

“He never forgot that service,” resumed Mr. MacGentle, his customary plaintive manner returning.  “To that, and to your saving the Egyptian lad,—.  Manetho,—­you owe your wife Helen:  ah! forgive me,—­I had forgotten; she is dead,—­she is dead.”

“I never could understand,” remarked Helwyse, aiming to lead the conversation away from gloomy topics, “why the Doctor made so much of Manetho.”  “That was only a part of the Egyptian mania that possessed him, and began, you know, with his changing his name from Henry to Hiero; and has gone on, until now, I suppose, he actually believes himself to be some old inscription, containing precious secrets, not to be found elsewhere.  Before the adventure with the boy, I remember, he had formed the idea of building a miniature Egypt in New Jersey; and Manetho served well as the living human element in it.  ’Though I take him to America,’ you know he said, ’he shall live in Egypt still.  He shall have a temple, and an altar, and Isis and Osiris, and papyri and palm-trees and a crocodile; and when he dies I will embalm him like a Pharaoh.’  ‘But suppose you die first?’ said one of us.  ’Then he shall embalm me!’ cried Hiero, and I will be the first American mummy.’”

Mr. MacGentle seemed to find a dreamy enjoyment in working this vein of reminiscence.  He sat back in his low arm-chair, his unsubstantial face turned meditatively towards the Magdalen, his hands brought together to support his delicate chin.  Helwyse, apprehending that the vein might at last bring the dreamer down to the present day, encouraged him to follow it.