It was a youth of great height and powerful frame, his face so brown that it might belong to either the white or the red race, but with fine clean features like those of a Greek god.

He was clad in deerskins, ornamented with little colored beads and fringes of brilliant dyes.

He carried a slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, and he came forward with swift, soundless steps.
The master recoiled in alarm at the strange and ominous figure, but as the red flooded back into the girl's cheeks she put her hand upon his arm.
"It is he! I knew that he was not dead!" she said in an intense tremulous whisper.

The words were indefinite, but the master knew whom she meant, and there was a surge of joy in his heart, to be followed the next moment by doubt and astonishment.

It was Henry Ware who had come back, but not the same Henry Ware.
Henry was beside them in a moment and he seized their hands, first the hands of one and then of the other, calling them by name.
The master recovering from his momentary diffidence threw his arms around his former pupil, welcomed him with many words, and wanted to know where he had been so long.
"I shall tell you, but not now," replied Henry, "because there is no time to spare; you are threatened by a great danger.