“Hold your tongue, ye bitch,” said young hopeful; “if ye don't toss me, I'll turn ye all off, as soon as ever the old un kicks the bucket.” Thus menaced, they thought it prudent to toss him; but, at the third toss, he yelled out, “Oh! oh! oh! I'm all wet; it's blood! I'm dead!” Then they examined, and found his arm was severely lacerated by an old nail that had been driven into the tree, and it had torn the flesh in his fall: he was covered with blood, the sight of which quenched his manly spirit, and he began to howl. “Old linen rag, warm water, and a bottle of champagne,” shouted Rolfe: the servants flew. Rolfe dressed and bandaged the wound for him, and then he felt faint: the champagne soon set that right; and then he wanted to get drunk, alleging, as a reason, that he had not been drunk for this two months. Sir Charles was told of the accident, and was distressed by it, and also by the cause. “Rolfe,” said he, sorrowfully, “there is a ring-dove's nest on that tree: she and hers have built there in peace and safety for a hundred years, and cooed about the place. My unhappy boy was climbing the tree to take the young, after solemnly promising me he never would: that is the bitter truth. What shall I do with the young barbarian?” He sighed, and Lady Bassett echoed the sigh. Said Rolfe, “The young barbarian, as you call him, has disarmed me: he plays the fiddle like a civilized angel.” “Oh, Mr. Rolfe!” “What, you his mother, and not found that out yet? Oh yes, he has a heaven-born genius for music.” Rolfe then related the musical feats of the urchin. Sir Charles begged to observe that this talent would go a very little way toward fitting him to succeed his father and keep up the credit of an ancient family. “Dear Charles, Mr. Rolfe knows that; but it is like him to make the best of things, to encourage us. But what do you think of him, on the whole, Mr. Rolfe? has Sir Charles more to hope or to fear?” “Give me another day or two to study him,” said Rolfe. That night there was a loud alarm. Mr. Bassett was running about the veranda in his night-dress. They caught him and got him to bed, and Rolfe said it was fever; and, with the assistance of Sir Charles and a footman, laid him between two towels steeped in tepid water, then drew blankets tight over him, and, in short, packed him. “Ah!” said he, complacently; “I say, give me a drink of moonshine, old chap.” “I'll give you a bucketful,” said Rolfe; then, with the servant's help, took his little bed and put it close to the window; the moonlight streamed in on the boy's face, his great black eyes glittered in it. He was diabolically beautiful. “Kiss me, moonshine,” said he; “I like to wash in you.”