y, "but why do you not come and
succour Father Philip? He is bleeding to death, while you, who are
staying here, might help him."

As the knight rapidly collected his scattered senses, he became
more and more ashamed of himself; and now, clambering out of his
ignominious confinement, with bowed head and tottering feet he humbly
followed his fair companion across the yard. Not even the gigantic
vat, which was still steaming from a recent brew, the pungent odour
of which could be plainly scented, induced him to alter his course; he
meekly entered the room at Dorothy's heels.

Whatever effects of his recent indulgence remained with him before he
entered the room, they were quickly dispelled as he beheld the
pallid countenance of his friend, and falling down upon his knees, he
scrutinised the injuries the venerable father had received.

A brief examination satisfied Benedict that, unskilled as he was, the
case was entirely beyond his power, and he knew not what to do. He
unloosened the bandages which Manners had made, and let the already
over-bled man bleed still more; and then, bethinking himself of
summoning superior aid, he hastily concocted a dose of simples,
which the sufferer could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take,
despatched a mounted messenger to Derby, and sat himself down at the
foot of the bench to await the course of events.

The effect produced by the dose was evidently what Benedict had
wished, and for a long time the sufferer was far more quiet.

"O, Benedict," he feebly exclaimed, "my head, my head!"

"Well, it will be better soon."

"Nay, I know I'm dying; 'twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive
myself."

Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed
another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take.

"Oh, dear, I'm dying, dying," he gasped.

"Tut, man! rubbish. There's life enough left yet in you. We shall be
out together again in a day or two."

"Send for another brother," pursued the unfortunate man. "I am dying;
my end has come, and I know it."

"Tut, man!" returned the knight, "I tell you you will be better soon."

"A witch told me I should die like this," continued the father
obstinately, "and the time has come. I am too old to survive it now."

"Go to sleep, father," interrupted Manners, "you ought not to talk
now; you want rest."

"Yes, sleep," assented a Woode.

"I cannot, I am dying," he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and
again.