The officer looked at me, and I looked at him.  Old Surley, who at first had been very much inclined to fly at the strangers, growling fiercely, went up to him and quietly licked his hand.  In spite of his clean-shaven face, his gay clothes, and well filled-out cheeks, I immediately recognised him as Manuel Silva, as he called himself--the man whom we had with so much risk saved from the wreck of the Spanish brig.  "Yes, I remember you," he whispered in his broken English; "but don't let others know that.  I'm not a man to forget kindness, that's all."