Squire Bozard answered that he did not know his name, but that he had seen him in the market-place, a tall and stately man, richly dressed, with a handsome face and a scar upon his temple.
At this news my mother turned pale beneath her olive skin, and muttered in Spanish: 'Holy Mother! grant that it be not he.' My father also looked frightened, and questioned the squire closely as to the man's appearance, but without learning anything more.

Then he bade him adieu with little ceremony, and taking horse rode away for Yarmouth.
That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursing chair, brooding over I know not what.

As I left her when I went to my bed, so I found her when I came from it at dawn.

I can remember well pushing the door ajar to see her face glimmering white in the twilight of the May morning, as she sat, her large eyes fixed upon the lattice.
'You have risen early, mother,' I said.
'I have never lain down, Thomas,' she answered.
'Why not?
What do you fear ?' 'I fear the past and the future, my son.

Would that your father were back.' About ten o'clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk into Bungay to the house of that physician under whom I was learning the art of healing, my father rode up.