When he straightened himself it was to see the figure of an old man he did not know coming through the gate that led from the lane into the farmyard.  There was only one field intervening, and Ishmael’s eyes were still very good at a distance; he could see the old man was no one from those parts.  There was something outlandish, too, about the soft slouch hat and the cut of the clothes, of a slaty grey that showed up clearly amidst the earthy and green colours all around.  The old man stood fumbling with the gate in his hand, then, when it swung back, he stayed staring round him as though he were looking for something he did not find.  He made two or three little steps forward, then paused.  Ishmael, having bidden the man see to the horses, went into the next field that gave into the yard.

The stranger looked round, saw him, hesitated again, then went forward, more surely this time, as though he had either remembered something or suddenly made up his mind.  He passed through the archway into the court.  Ishmael stood, his hand on the gate, staring after him, his heart thumping painfully, why, he could not or would not admit to himself.  Then he, too, went on and into the court.  He crossed it, went through the passage door that stood open, and on into the kitchen which lay on the left.  There was no one there.  He passed into the sitting-room on the right of the passage, and there he saw the old man standing by the fireplace and looking round him with an odd, bewildered air.  He looked up as Ishmael came in, and their eyes met.  Afterwards Ishmael realised that he had always known it was Archelaus from the moment he had seen him stand and look round him at the gate.

Archelaus looked a very old man.  He was old even in actual years, and almost ageless if some indefinable look on his seamed face registered more truly the period sustained by the ravaged spirit.  He stood staring at Ishmael, then spoke in a husky, uncertain voice that went suddenly from gruffness to a high querulousness.

“Who be you?” he asked.  “I be Archelaus Beggoe, and I’m come home to where I was born and reared....  I’m come home, I tell ’ee.”

The two old men stood looking at each other.

“Don’t you remember me?” asked Ishmael gently.  “I’m Ishmael, your brother; you know....”  He went forward and took the other’s unresisting hand.  “Welcome home, Archelaus!”

The elder brother said nothing, but slowly a look of comprehension began to dawn in his bleared old eyes, a look that was inexpressibly sly and yet harmless, so infantine was his whole aspect of helplessness.  He shook Ishmael’s hand very slowly, then dropped it.

“I’m come home,” he repeated obstinately.

CHAPTER II

ARCHELAUS, NICKY, JIM