“Through this act of impulsive pity he was brought back again within the pale of human relations with his new surroundings.  He never forgot it—­never.

“That very same morning old Mr. Swaffer (Smith’s nearest neighbour) came over to give his advice, and ended by carrying him off.  He stood, unsteady on his legs, meek, and caked over in half-dried mud, while the two men talked around him in an incomprehensible tongue.  Mrs. Smith had refused to come downstairs till the madman was off the premises; Amy Foster, far from within the dark kitchen, watched through the open back door; and he obeyed the signs that were made to him to the best of his ability.  But Smith was full of mistrust.  ’Mind, sir!  It may be all his cunning,’ he cried repeatedly in a tone of warning.  When Mr. Swaffer started the mare, the deplorable being sitting humbly by his side, through weakness, nearly fell out over the back of the high two-wheeled cart.  Swaffer took him straight home.  And it is then that I come upon the scene.

“I was called in by the simple process of the old man beckoning to me with his forefinger over the gate of his house as I happened to be driving past.  I got down, of course.

“‘I’ve got something here,’ he mumbled, leading the way to an outhouse at a little distance from his other farm-buildings.

“It was there that I saw him first, in a long low room taken upon the space of that sort of coach-house.  It was bare and whitewashed, with a small square aperture glazed with one cracked, dusty pane at its further end.  He was lying on his back upon a straw pallet; they had given him a couple of horse-blankets, and he seemed to have spent the remainder of his strength in the exertion of cleaning himself.  He was almost speechless; his quick breathing under the blankets pulled up to his chin, his glittering, restless black eyes reminded me of a wild bird caught in a snare.  While I was examining him, old Swaffer stood silently by the door, passing the tips of his fingers along his shaven upper lip.  I gave some directions, promised to send a bottle of medicine, and naturally made some inquiries.

“‘Smith caught him in the stackyard at New Barns,’ said the old chap in his deliberate, unmoved manner, and as if the other had been indeed a sort of wild animal.  ’That’s how I came by him.  Quite a curiosity, isn’t he?  Now tell me, doctor—­you’ve been all over the world—­don’t you think that’s a bit of a Hindoo we’ve got hold of here.’

“I was greatly surprised.  His long black hair scattered over the straw bolster contrasted with the olive pallor of his face.  It occurred to me he might be a Basque.  It didn’t necessarily follow that he should understand Spanish; but I tried him with the few words I know, and also with some French.  The whispered sounds I caught by bending my ear to his lips puzzled me utterly.  That afternoon the young ladies from the Rectory (one of them read Goethe with a dictionary, and the other had struggled