"I do not know, doctor," replied the other. "I do not feel well--am fatigued--have got a head-ache--my temples throb; and my thoughts are somewhat confused." "You have got something on your mind," said Sandy Woodyard, thinking of Emily, whom the old man loved dearly, and did not like to see sacrificed; "your conscience is not quiet, I should think--this is all mental." "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Sir William Winslow, fiercely; his pride and his courage coming arm in arm to his aid the moment he was attacked in front. "I mean just what I say," replied the surgeon, nothing daunted; "there is no sign in the pulse or the temperature of the skin, to show any corporeal ailment. It must be mental; and the best thing to prevent the mind acting too strongly on the body, will be to let you blood. Bring me a basin and a good stout stick, flunky." Sir William Winslow submitted willingly enough, though he hated the old man mortally, for words which touched rudely but unwittingly on the deep concealed wound. Sandy Woodyard made him grasp the stick tightly in his hand, pierced the arm, and as the blood spirted forth, indulged in a grim smile, muttering. "Ay, black--damned black--black blood as ever I saw--very needful to draw this off--we must have a good drop!" And a good drop he did certainly take; for, whether, from judging it really necessary, or from a slight touch of malice, he bled the baronet till he fainted. Sir William was carried to his room, and soon brought to consciousness again; but good Mr. Woodyard was not aware that, in one respect, at least, he had conferred a favour, by affording a fair excuse to his patient for not joining the party below any more that night. Even that was a relief; but it was not till the next morning that Sir William Winslow was aware of all he had escaped.