the throng had pushed him from me. Still there came an
answer in a deep and peculiarly thrilling voice. "That is
a true saying and a good augury!"

I learn much by voices and before I turned I knew that
this was an enthusiast's voice, but not an enthusiast without
knowledge. Whoever spoke was strong enough, real enough.
I liked the voice and felt a certain inner movement of friendship.
Some shift among the great actors, some parting of
banners, kept us suspended and staring for a moment, then
the view closed against us who could only behold by snatches.
Freed, I turned to see who had spoken and found a tall,
strongly made, white-haired man. The silver hair was too
soon; he could hardly have been ten years my elder. He
had a long, fair face that might once have been tanned and
hardened by great exposure. His skin had that look, but
now the bronze was faded, and you could see that he had
been born very fair in tint. Across the high nose and
cheek bones went a powdering of freckles. His eyes were
bluish-gray and I saw at once that he habitually looked at
things afar off.

He was rather poorly dressed and pushed about as I was.
When the surge again gave him footing, he spoke beside me.
"'Now that this is over, they might do some great, worthy
thing!' Very true, friend, they might! I take your words
for good omen." The throng shot out an arm and we were
parted. The same action brought back to me Diego Lopez.
Speaking to him later of the tall man, he said that he had
noticed him, and that it was the Italian who would go to