For a moment Bayne was like a man in a dream. To be confronted suddenly
with the realization of all his hopes, the consummation of all his
struggles, took his breath away. He had not been sufficiently acquainted
with the boy to recognize him at once in this different attire, and with
the growth and vigor of nearly a year's time, but the incongruity of his
fair complexion, his blond hair, in this entourage, his exotic aspect,
made Bayne's heart leap and every nerve tremble.
Meeting the gaze of the big, unafraid blue eyes, he asked at a venture in
English, "And what is your name, young man?"
"Archie Royston," promptly replied the assured and lordly youngster.
"Alchie Loyston," mechanically repeated the old sibyl. Even the glance of
her dimmed eyes was a caress as she fondly turned them toward the child.
Bayne looked as if he might faint. A sharp exclamation was scarcely
arrested on his lips. He flushed deeply, then turned pale with
excitement. For months past, flaring in all the public prints, that name
had been advertised with every entreaty that humanity must regard, with
every lure that might excite cupidity, with every threat that
intimidation could compass.
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