I spring toward him with an exclamation: "Joseph Tryan!" He does not move.

We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on his shoulder, and say: "Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they?
The boys--George! Are they here?
are they safe ?" He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we involuntarily recoil before his look.

It is a calm and quiet glance, free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdling through our veins.

He bowed his head over his book again, taking no further notice of us.

The men look at me compassionately, and hold their peace.