Trenholme asked him why he had come, what his name was, and several such questions.  He raised his voice louder and louder, but he might as well have talked to the inanimate things about him.  This one other human being who had entered his desolate scene took, it would seem, no cognisance of him at all.  Just as we know that animals in some cases have senses for sights and sounds which make no impression on human eyes and ears, and are impervious to what we see and hear, so it seemed to Trenholme that the man before him had organs of sense dead to the world about him, but alive to something which he alone could perceive.  It might have been a fantastic idea produced by the strange circumstances, but it certainly was an idea which leaped into his mind and would not be reasoned away.  He did not feel repulsion for the poor wanderer, or fear of him; he felt rather a growing attraction—­in part curiosity, in part pity, in part desire for whatever it might be that had brought the look of joyous expectancy into the aged face.  This look had faded now to some extent.  The old man stood still, as one who had lost his way, not seeking for indications of that which he had lost, but looking right forwards and upwards, steadily, calmly, as if sure that something would appear.

Trenholme laid a strong hand upon his arm.  “Cameron!” he shouted, to see if that name would rouse him.  The arm that he grasped felt like a rock for strength and stillness.  The name which he shouted more than once did not seem to enter the ears of the man who had perhaps owned it in the past.  He shook off Trenholme’s hand gently without turning towards him.

“Ay,” he said. (His voice was strong.) Then he shook his head with a patient sigh.  “Not here,” he said, “not here.”  He spoke as deaf men speak, unconscious of the key of their own voice.  Then he turned shuffling round the table again, and seemed to be seeking for the door.

“Look here,” said Trenholme, “don’t go out.”  Again he put his hand strongly on his visitor, and again he was quietly brushed aside.  The outside seemed so terribly cold and dark and desolate for this poor old man to wander in, that Trenholme was sorry he should go.  Yet go he did, opening the door and shutting it behind him.

Trenholme’s greatcoat, cap, and snow-shoes were hanging against the wall.  He put them on quickly.  When he got out the old man was fumbling for something outside, and Trenholme experienced a distinct feeling of surprise when he saw him slip his feet into an old pair of snow-shoes and go forth on them.  The old snow-shoes had only toe-straps and no other strings, and the feat of walking securely upon seemed almost as difficult to the young Englishman as walking on the sea of frozen atoms without them; but still, the fact that the visitor wore them made him seem more companionable.

Trenholme supposed that the traveller was seeking some dwelling-place, and that he would naturally turn either up the road to Turrifs or toward the hills; instead of that, he made again for the birch wood, walking fast with strong, elastic stride.  Trenholme followed him, and they went across acres of billowy snow.