CHAPTER XX.
reappearance of one who may be remembered.
The herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this spectacle met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of twelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes of old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes, blinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at intervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed search for his nurse. He presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has, through overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to his feet.
"You seek some one," said the herb-doctor, accosting him. "Can I assist you ?"
"Do, do; I am so old and miserable," coughed the old man. "Where is he? This long time I've been trying to get up and find him. But I haven't any friends, and couldn't get up till now. Where is he?"
"Who do you mean?" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one so weakly.
"Why, why, why," now marking the other's dress, "why you, yes you—you, you—ugh, ugh, ugh!"
