The Fortunes Of Glencore - Charles James Lever

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her head up in the wind,” cried Craggs.

      This time the order came too late; for the squall struck her with the suddenness of a shot, and she canted over till her keel lay out of water, and, when she righted, it was with the white surf boiling over her.

      “She's a good boat, then, to stand that,” said Billy, as he struck a light for his pipe, with all the coolness of one perfectly at his ease; and Craggs, from that very moment, conceived a favorable opinion of the little hunchback.

      “Now we're in the smooth water, Corporal,” cried Billy; “let her go a little free.”

      And, obedient to the advice, he ran the boat swiftly along till she entered a small creek, so sheltered by the highlands that the water within was still as a mountain tarn.

      “You never made the passage on a worse night, I 'll be bound,” said Craggs, as he sprang on shore.

      “Indeed and I did, then,” replied Billy. “I remember—it was two days before Christmas—we were blown out to say in a small boat, not more than the half of this, and we only made the west side of Arran Island after thirty-six hours' beating and tacking. I wrote an account of it for the 'Tyrawly Regenerator,' commencing with—

      “'The elemential conflict that with tremendious violence raged, ravaged, and ruined the adamantine foundations of our western coast, on Tuesday, the 23rd of December—'”

      “Come along, come along,” said Craggs; “we've something else to think of.”

      And with this admonition, very curtly bestowed, he stepped out briskly on the path towards Glencore.

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      When the Corporal, followed by Billy, entered the gloomy hall of the Castle, they found two or three country people conversing in a low but eager voice together, who speedily turned towards them, to learn if the doctor had come.

      “Here 's all I could get in the way of a doctor,” said Craggs, pushing Billy towards them as he spoke.

      “Faix, and ye might have got worse,” muttered a very old man; “Billy Traynor has the lucky hand.'”

      “How is my lord, now, Nelly?” asked the Corporal of a woman who, with bare feet, and dressed in the humblest fashion of the peasantry, appeared.

      “He's getting weaker and weaker, sir; I believe he's sinking. I'm glad it's Billy is come; I'd rather see him than all the doctors in the country.”

      “Follow me,” said Craggs, giving a signal to step lightly; and he led the way up a narrow stone stair, with a wall on either hand. Traversing a long, low corridor, they reached a door, at which having waited for a second or two to listen, Craggs turned the handle and entered. The room was very large and lofty, and, seen in the dim light of a small lamp upon the hearthstone, seemed even more spacious than it was. The oaken floor was uncarpeted, and a very few articles of furniture occupied the walls. In one corner stood a large bed, the heavy curtains of which had been gathered up on the roof, the better to admit air to the sick man.

      As Billy drew nigh with cautious steps, he perceived that, although worn and wasted by long illness, the patient was a man still in the very prime of life. His dark hair and beard, which he wore long, were untinged with gray, and his forehead showed no touch of age. His dark eyes were wide open, and his lips slightly parted, his whole features exhibiting an expression of energetic action, even to wildness. Still he was sleeping; and, as Craggs whispered, he seldom slept otherwise, even when in health. With all the quietness of a trained practitioner, Billy took down the watch that was pinned to the curtain and proceeded to count the pulse.

      “A hundred and thirty-eight,” muttered he, as he finished; and then, gently displacing the bedclothes, laid his hand upon the heart.

      With a long-drawn sigh, like that of utter weariness, the sick man moved his head round and fixed his eyes upon him.

      “The doctor!” said he, in a deep-toned but feeble voice. “Leave me, Craggs—leave me alone with him.”

      And the Corporal slowly retired, turning as he went to look back towards the bed, and evidently going with reluctance.

      “Is it fever?” asked the sick man, in a faint but unfaltering accent.

      “It's a kind of cerebral congestion—a matter of them membranes that's over the brain, with, of course, febrilis generalis.”

      The accentuation of these words, marked as it was by the strongest provincialism of the peasant, attracted the sick man's attention, and he bent upon him a look at once searching and severe.

      “What are you—who are you?” cried he, angrily.

      “What I am is n't so aisy to say; but who I am is clean beyond me.”

      “Are you a doctor?” asked the sick man, fiercely.

      “I'm afear'd I'm not, in the sense of a gradum Universitatis—a diplomia; but sure maybe Paracelsus himself just took to it, like me, having a vocation, as one might say.”

      “Ring that bell,” said the other, peremptorily.

      And Billy obeyed without speaking.

      “What do you mean by this, Craggs?” said the Viscount, trembling with passion. “Who have you brought me? What beggar have you picked off the highway? Or is he the travelling fool of the district?”

      But the anger that supplied strength hitherto now failed to impart energy, and he sank back wasted and exhausted. The Corporal bent over him, and spoke something in a low whisper, but whether the words were heard or not, the sick man now lay still, breathing heavily.

      “Can you do nothing for him?” asked Craggs, peevishly—“nothing but anger him?”

      “To be sure I can if you let me,” said Billy, producing a very ancient lancet-case of boxwood tipped with ivory. “I'll just take a dash of blood from the temporal artery, to relieve the cerebrum, and then we'll put cowld on his head, and keep him quiet.”

      And with a promptitude that showed at least self-confidence, he proceeded to accomplish the operation, every step of which he effected skilfully and well.

      “There, now,” said he, feeling the pulse, as the blood continued to flow freely, “the circulation is relieved at once; it's the same as opening a sluice in a mill-dam. He 's better already.”

      “He looks easier,” said Craggs.

      “Ay, and he feels it,” continued Billy. “Just notice the respiratory organs, and see how easy the intercostials is doing their work now. Bring me a bowl of clean water, some vinegar, and any ould rags you have.”

      Craggs obeyed, but not without a sneer at the direction.

      “All over the head,” said Billy; “all over it—back and front—and with the blessing of the Virgin, I'll have that hair off of him if he is n't cooler towards evening.”

      So saying, he covered the sick man with the wetted cloths, and bathed his hands in the cooling fluid.

      “Now to exclude the light and save the brain from stimulation and excitation,” said Billy, with a pompous enunciation of the last syllables; “and then quies—rest—peace!”

      And with this direction, imparted with a caution to enforce its benefits, he moved stealthily towards the door and passed out.

      “What do you think of him?” asked the Corporal, eagerly.

      “He 'll do—he 'll do,” said Billy. “He's a sanguineous temperament, and he'll bear the lancet. It's just like weatherin' a point at say. If you have a craft that will carry canvas,

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