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Among many misfortunes, thanks be to my guardian angels, this fate has never overtaken me, yet at that moment I felt something that was akin to it—not love, indeed, but a great sense of friendship and sympathy for and with this man, which, mastering me then, is still growing to this hour, though its object has for many years been dead.

Perhaps it was the contrast between us that attracted me so much at first, since human beings are ever drawn towards their opposites in nature and appearance. I, as you, my friend, for whom I write this history, will remember, although you have only known me in my age, am tall, thin, and sallow, like all my race, with a sad expression reflecting the heart within, and melancholy eyes.

Very different were the mind and appearance of James Strickland, the Englishman. He was a fine man, over thirty years of age, short in proportion to his width, though somewhat spare in frame and slender in limb. His features were as clearly cut as those of an ancient god upon a marble wall; his eyes were blue as the sea, and, though just now they were troubled at the sight of death, merry like the eyes of a boy; his curling hair—for he had removed his hat in the presence of the dead—was yellow as mimosa bloom, darkening almost to red in the short beard and about the ears, where the weather had caught it; and beneath his shirt, which was open at the neck, his skin showed white like milk. For the rest, his hands were long and delicate, notwithstanding the hard work of which they bore traces; his glance was quick, and his smile the most pleasant that ever I had seen.