the man in yellow threw up his hands despairingly.
"Was not your name Pierre Dunrot?" asked Giant, quickly.
The strange man staggered back as if shot.
"Pierre Dunrot? Pierre Dunrot?" he repeated slowly. "Yes! yes! That was my name! How—how did you know it?"
"Because you are my uncle!" gasped Giant, coming to the strange man's side. "You are Pierre Dunrot, my long-lost uncle."
"Your uncle?"
"Yes, my uncle. Do you not remember my mother, Kate Caslette, and do you not remember me—your little Guillaume, the boy you used to ride on your knee?" went on Giant, earnestly and looking the man straight in the eyes.
"Yes! yes! I remember now!" cried the man, and now his eyes searched the small youth's face. "You are my little Guillaume indeed!" He took Giant by the hand. "But how is this—my mind is in a whirl! I do not understand!" And he gazed from Giant to the others in simple-minded perplexity.
"You ran away from home," answered Giant. "It was after the storm, when the lightning had burnt up the manuscript of your beloved history—"
