He had an oval, olive-tinted face, with long black hair,
ungathered in a queue, and there was something of the poet or of the
artist in his whole appearance. The sight of that refined face, and of
the warm yellow firelight which beat upon it, was a very cheering one to
a cold and famished traveller. I stood for an instant gazing at him,
and noticing the way in which his full and somewhat loose-fitting lower
lip quivered continually, as if he were repeating to himself that which
he was reading. I was still looking at him when he put his book down
upon the table and approached the window. Catching a glimpse of my
figure in the darkness he called out something which I could not hear,
and waved his hand in a gesture of welcome. An instant later the door
flew open, and there was his thin tall figure standing upon the
threshold, with his skirts flapping in the wind.
'My dear friends,' he cried, peering out into the gloom with his hand
over his eyes to screen them from the salt-laden wind and driving sand,
'I had given you up. I thought that you were never coming.
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