“As I finished my reading, I looked up and saw Mr. Sanderson watching me across the table. ‘Well?’ said he.
“I pushed the parchment across to him, and filled a pipe. He read the whole through very slowly, and without the movement of a muscle; then handed it back, but said never a word.
“‘Well,’ I asked, after a pause; ‘what do you think of it?’
“’Why, in the first place, that my father was a marvellously honest man, and yours, Mr. Trenoweth, a very indiscreet one. And secondly, that ye’re just as indiscreet as he, and it will be lucky for ye if I’m as honest as my father.’
“’Aye, ye may laugh; but mark my words, Mr. Trenoweth. Ye’ve a trustful way with ye that takes my liking; but it would surprise me very much, sir, did ye ever lay hands on that Ruby.’”
CONTAINS THE SECOND PART OF MY FATHER’S JOURNAL: SETTING FORTH HIS ADVENTURES IN THE ISLAND OF CEYLON.
“Sept. 29th, 1848.—It is a strange thing that on the very next day after reading my father’s message I should have been struck down and reduced to my present condition. But so it is, and now, four months after my first entry in this Journal, I am barely able to use the pen to add to my account. As far as I remember—for my head wanders sadly at times—it happened thus: On the 23rd of May last, after spending the greater part of the day in writing my Journal, and also my first letter to my dear wife, I walked down in the cool of the evening to the city, intending to post the latter; which I did, and was returning to Mr. Sanderson’s house, when I stopped to watch the sun setting in this glorious Bay of Bengal. I was leaning over a low wall, looking out on the open sea with its palm-fringed shores, when suddenly the sun shot out a jagged flame; the sky heaved and turned to blood—and I knew no more. I had been murderously struck from behind. That I was found, lying to all appearance dead, with a hideous zig-zag wound upon the scalp; that my pockets had been to all appearance rifled (whether by the assassin or the natives that found me is uncertain); that I was finally claimed and carried home by Mr. Sanderson, who, growing uneasy at my absence, had set out to look for me; that for more than a month, and then again for almost two months, my life hung in the balance; and that I owe my recovery to Mr. Sanderson’s unceasing kindness—all this I have learnt but lately. I can write no more at present.