man he had seen before. Reassured on this point Yorke resumed his course to the inn, for he now stood in want of food, wondering that the gentleman should choose such a time for exercise.
The interior of the "River Belle," for such was the name of the wayside inn, looked cheerful by contrast with the gloomy evening outside. On the right side of the little hall or entrance passage was a parlour, the open door of which showed a fire to be burning inside; on the opposite side was a sort of public coffee-room, with the bar at one end, at the back of which a door opened into another room. Walking into the coffee-room, and ordering some refreshment to be got ready and served in the parlour, he was told that it was engaged, but that another private room could be provided if he wished it. He elected, however, to stay where he was; a cheerful fire burnt in the hearth, before which was a small round table, and the room was empty save for the hostess, sitting behind the bar engaged in needlework.
Yorke began talking with the landlady, when after giving orders from the back room about his dinner she returned to her station behind the bar. The River Belle seemed a snug little place, he remarked; he supposed they had plenty of visitors in the summer. Plenty, said the landlady; very often more than they could find room for: sometimes as many as a dozen gents would be taking their meals at a time in that very room, besides them that preferred to sit outside under the trees. But in the winter they had not much business? Not much, nothing to speak of; indeed they might as well shut up in winter if it wasn't for the look of the thing. But they had a visitor just now, had they not? Yes, the gent who occupies the parlour; he was out just now taking a bit of a walk, which he oughtn't to be, on such a night, for he was quite an invalid gentleman; seemed to have met with a dreadful railway accident or something of the sort, quite a cripple as one might say, and a terrible object to look at, poor man. "That's him," continued the woman, "speaking to my husband outside."
Yorke had started to his feet on hearing the sound of the voice. Many a time had he faced danger, battle, murder, and sudden death, but never before had the blood seemed to stand still within him as it did on hearing the accents of this voice. For a moment his limbs refused obedience, as he stood trembling with surprise and horror; then summoning strength, he passed out into the passage.
The stranger was standing in the doorway with his back to Yorke, speaking to some one under the porch outside, the landlord apparently, who was making some remarks about the weather.
Again that voice, so often heard before in years gone by, that voice so clear and stern in the day of battle, so sweet and gentle in friendly converse, that voice, once known as Yorke had known it, never again to be forgotten!
The stranger turned round, and moved along the little passage towards the parlour door, his head bent down. Then as he reached the door, he looked up for an instant, and his eye fell on Yorke standing transfixed close to him.
The stranger started, and put out a hand under his cloak as if to steady himself against the wall, as he did so raising his head and displaying for an instant, to the horror-stricken Yorke, a ghastly view of a sightless eye in the scarred socket, and a mutilated brow and face, which had lost all likeness to the original features. Then, as the vision turned, and the other side of it became presented to his view, there could be traced a resemblance to the well-remembered face.
"Falkland!" cried Yorke, making a step forward, and seizing the other by the arm. "Falkland! risen from the dead!"
From The Fortnightly Review.
A GLIMPSE OF THE KOREA.
A cool breeze from the north-west rose in the early morning, and fanned the heated waters of the Korean Channel, raised yesterday almost to a glow by the scorching blaze of the August sun. The atmosphere is still clear of vapour; the sky above, the sea beneath, both serenely blue; a gentle ripple just ruffles the surface of the water, tossed into spray only by the cleaving prow of the huge ship steaming onward towards the land; light fleecy clouds, snowy or even silvery white in the early sunshine, fleck the bright azure of the sky, and float across the newly-risen sun. Far away on the port-bow a long line of misty cloud-masses hangs over the lofty summits of the Korean island of Quel-part, itself still out of view. On the starboard hand rise above the horizon, indistinct in the far distance, the blue ridges of the mainland, with an archipelago of
