He was of more than middle height, had
black hair, dark blue eyes, straight, strongly-marked brows, and was
clean-shaven. He was a little ascetic-looking, and rather interesting and
uncommon, and yet he was unmistakably a sea-going man. It was a face that
one would turn to look at again and again--a singular personality. And
yet my first glance told me that he was not one who had seen much
happiness. Perhaps that was not unattractive in itself, since people who
are very happy, and show it, are often most selfish too, and repel where
they should attract. He was now standing near the grave, and his eyes
were turned from one to the other of us, at last resting on Justine.
Presently I saw a look of recognition. He stepped quickly forward.
"Mademoiselle, will you pardon me?" he said very gently, "but you remind
me of one whose grave I came to see." His hand made a slight motion
toward Hector Caron's resting-place. Her eyes were on him with an
inquiring earnestness. "Oh, monsieur, is it possible that you are my
brother's friend and rescuer?"
"I am Roscoe. He was my good friend," he said to her, and he held out his
hand.
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