“I am right—­I do not conjecture.  I do not so readily mistake my man, and I was quite too near him on that occasion not to see every feature of that face, which, at another and an earlier day, could come between me and my dearest joys—­but why speak I of this?  I know him:  not to remember would be to forget that I am here; and that he was a part of that very influence which made me league, Munro, with such as you, and become a creature of, and a companion with, men whom even now I despise.  I shall not soon forget his stern and haughty smile of scorn—­his proud bearing—­his lofty sentiment—­all that I most admire—­all that I do not possess—­and when to-day he descended to dinner, guided by that meddling booby, Forrester, I knew him at a glance.  I should know him among ten thousand.”

“It’s to be hoped that he will have no such memory.  I can’t see, indeed, how he should recognise either of us.  Our disguises were complete.  Your whiskers taken off, leave you as far from any resemblance to what you were in that affair, as any two men can well be from one another; and I am perfectly satisfied he has little knowledge of me.”

“How should he?” retorted the other.  “The better part of valor saved you from all risk of danger or discovery alike; but the case is different with me.  It may be that, enjoying the happiness which I have lost, he has forgotten the now miserable object that once dared to aspire—­but no matter—­it may be that I am forgotten by him—­he can never be by me.”

This speech, which had something in it vague and purposeless to the mind of Munro, was uttered with gloomy emphasis, more as a soliloquy than a reply, by the speaker.  His hands were passed over his eyes as if in agony, and his frame seemed to shudder at some remote recollection which had still the dark influence upon him.  Munro was a dull man in all matters that belong to the heart, and those impulses which characterize souls of intelligence and ambition.  He observed the manner of his companion, but said nothing in relation to it; and the latter, unable to conceal altogether, or to suppress even partially his emotions, did not deign to enter into any explanation in regard to them.

“Does he suspect anything yet, Guy, think you?—­have you seen anything which might sanction a thought that he knew or conjectured more than he should?” inquired Munro, anxiously.

“I will not say that he does, but he has the perception of a lynx—­he is an apt man, and his eyes have been more frequently upon me to-day than I altogether relish or admire.  It is true, mine were upon him—­as how, indeed, if death were in the look, could I have kept them off!  I caught his glance frequently; turning upon me with that stern, still expression, indifferent and insolent—­as if he cared not even while he surveyed.  I remember that glance three years ago, when he was indeed a boy—­I remembered it when, but a few days since, he struck me to the earth, and would have ridden me to death with the hoofs of his horse, but for your timely appearance.”