The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and solitary life had altered him beyond Charley's recognition.
Jo could hardly speak.

His legs were trembling under him, for now he knew that Charley Steele was himself again.

He was no longer the simple, quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the man who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not acknowledge.

Jo's brain was in a muddle.

Now that the great crisis was over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit.