During the winter of ——, I was one day warming myself at the workshop fire, in the interval when the men were all absent at breakfast, except one Eric Pullicate, with whom I happened to fall into conversation concerning the French affairs. Something extraordinary had occurred in them, and formed a prominent feature in the London Newspapers, received that morning. The accident of his being there alone, I am unable to explain, but it excited my attention; it seemed as if it had been intentional, and a slight air of studied carelessness visibly perplexed the freedom of his accustomed manner. I made, however, no remark on his appearance; I was indeed but slightly acquainted with him, knowing him only as one belonging to the establishment, and possessed of considerable influence over the other men.

Eric Pullicate was about thirty, but a gravity of demeanour made him look older. He was of very humble origin, and yet his education was much above his station; for he had been the poor scholar of a grammar-school, in which all the ordinary branches of instruction were taught, with mathematics and geography. In stature, he might be rather under the middle size; he was sturdily built, and though his complexion was pale, the effect of his sedentary vocation, his countenance indicated vigour, and possessed a singular cast of expression, which I cannot better describe than by saying it was the dawn of an inward intelligence. He stooped; and although his dark eyes were at once bright and inquisitive, he had a sinister way of looking from under his brows occasionally, which materially impaired the general fortitude of his features.