"Indeed, you are right," said the Preacher; "the man is ill--poor
fellow!" And, hurrying forward, he fell on his knees beside the
prostrate figure.
He was a tall man, roughly clad, and he lay upon his back, rigid
and motionless, while upon his blue lips were flecks and bubbles
of foam.
"Epilepsy!" said I. The Preacher nodded and busied himself with
loosening the sodden neckcloth, the while I unclasped the icy
fingers to relieve the tension of the muscles, The man's hair was long and matted, as was also his beard, and
his face all drawn and pale, and very deeply lined. Now, as I
looked at him, I had a vague idea that I had somewhere, at some
time, seen him before.
"Sir," said the Preacher, looking up, "will you help me to carry
him to my cottage? It is not very far."
So we presently took the man's wasted form between us and bore
it, easily enough, to where stood a small cottage bowered in
roses and honeysuckle. And, having deposited our unconscious
burden upon the Preacher's humble bed, I turned to depart.
"Sir," said the Preacher, holding out his hand, "it is seldom one
meets with a blacksmith who has read the Pythagorean Philosophy
--at Oxford, and I should like to see you again. I am a lonely man
save for my books; come and sup with me some evening, and let us
talk--"
"And smoke?" said I. The little Preacher sighed. "I will come,"
said I; "thank you! and good-by!" Now, even as I spoke, chancing
to cast my eyes upon the pale, still face on the bed, I felt more
certain than ever that I had somewhere seen it before.