When he heard the voice of Leonard Hust in the court, it seemed to strike upon some string in memory’s harp, which vibrated to old familiar recollections, and the more he heard him speak the more the sensation came over him which led to the demonstrations which we have already witnessed.  And yet he could not recall aught that would serve him as a clue—­the early injury to his brain seemed to have obliterated the connecting links that memory could not supply.  The reason, probably, why the servant’s voice and not the brother’s thus recalled him was, that the former had been kind, and his voice had ever sounded like music in the neglected boy’s ears, but the brother’s voice had never had that charm or happy association connected with it.  As to little cousin Helen,—­as she was then called,—­it was not strange that Miss Huntington, after years of estrangement in India, meeting him under such circumstances, himself so changed, should not have recalled enough of the past to recognize him; and yet we have seen that at times she dwelt upon the tender accents of his voice like sleeping memories, herself quite ignorant of the cause of this peculiar influence.

She was now with her mother on shore at the mission house, in an agony of suspense as to the result of the trial which was taking place.  She feared the worst, for Captain Bramble had taken measures to instruct those about her to their effect that the prisoner would be found guilty, and either strung cup by the neck at once, or be sent home to England for the same purpose.  Mrs. Huntington felt sad and borne down by the position of affairs—­for although she did not understand her daughter’s sentiments towards Captain Ratlin, yet she recognized the fact of her and her child’s indebtedness to him, and that he had evinced the characteristics of a gentleman.

“Mother, if they find Captain Ratlin guilty, what can they, what will they do with him?” asked Helen Huntington anxiously of her mother, on the day of the trial.

“Why, my dear, it is terrible to think of, but the penalty of such a crime as is charged to him, is death; but we must hope for the best, and—­why Helen, how pale you look!”

“It was only a passing spasm, mother.  I am—­I believe I am already better,” said the daughter, in an agony of suffering that she dared not evince.

“Come, Helen, lean on me and go to your bed for a while; these sudden changes and so much exposure has rendered you weak.  Come, my dear, come.”

And the poor girl, all trembling and pale, suffered her mother to lead her to her chamber, where a gentle anodyne soothed her nerves, and she soon fell to sleep.  Had her mother not been little better than blind, she would have easily read her daughter’s heart, and have seen that she loved with all her woman’s soul the man who was that day on trial for his life.  What mattered it to her that he was nameless, a wanderer, a slaver?  She loved him, and that covered each