Other memorandums in the same style were written in the blank leaves which appeared attached for the purpose, but it so happened that not one of them solved the mystery which so completely puzzled Mordaunt.  The name of Fortescue was utterly unknown to him, and increased the mystery of the youth’s having produced such a strange effect upon his mind.  There were many names introduced in these memorandums, but they explained nothing; one only struck him, it was one which in his hours of suffering, of slavery, ever sounded in his ear, the fondly-remembered name of her whom he longed to clasp to his aching heart—­it was Emmeline; and as he read it, the same gush of memory came over him as when he first gazed on Edward.  In vain reason whispered there were many, very many Emmelines in his native land; that name only brought one to his remembrance.  Though recovering, the youth was still much too weak and exhausted to attempt speaking, and Mordaunt watched by his couch for one day and two nights, ere the surgeon permitted him to ask a question or Edward to answer it.  Often, however, during that interval had the young stranger turned his bright blue eyes with a look of intelligence and feeling on him who attended him with the care of a father, and the colour, the expression of those eyes seemed to thrill to Mordaunt’s heart, and speak even yet more forcibly of days gone by.

“Let me write but two lines, to tell Captain Seaforth I am safe and well,” said Edward impetuously, as he sprung with renewed spirits from the couch on which he had been so long an unwilling prisoner.

“And how send it, my young friend?  There is not a vessel within sight on the wide sea.”

Edward uttered an exclamation of impatience, then instantly checking himself, said, with a smile—­

“Forgive me, sir; I should think only of my merciful preservation, and of endeavouring to express in some manner my obligations to you, to whose generous exertions, blessed as they were by heaven, I owe my life.  Oh, would that my aunt and sister were near me, their gratitude for the preservation of one whom they perhaps too fondly and too partially love, would indeed be gratifying to feelings such as yours.  I can feel what I owe you, Lieutenant Mordaunt, but I cannot express myself sufficiently in words.”

“In the name of heaven, young man, in pity tell me who you are!” gasped Mordaunt, almost inarticulately, as he grasped Edward’s hand and gazed intently on his face; for every word he spoke, heightened by the kindling animation of his features, appeared to render that extraordinary likeness yet more perfect.

“Edward Fortescue is my name.”

“But your mother’s, boy,—­your mother’s?  I ask not from idle curiosity.”

“She was the youngest daughter of Lord Delmont, Eleanor Manvers.”

Mordaunt gazed yet more intently on the youth, then hoarsely murmuring, “I knew it,—­it was no fancy,” sunk back almost overpowered with momentary agitation.  Recovering himself almost instantly, and before Edward could give vent to his surprise and sympathy in words, he asked, “Is Lord Delmont yet alive?  I knew him once; he was a kind old man.”  His lip quivered, so as almost to prevent the articulation of his words.