“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says. “You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the time,” says he, returning to my side. “A lame man can make little shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.” “Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!” says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it, “I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.” “Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little, hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my temper with him. “Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my pain, or put my foot down!” But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk as well as ever.” “Thank you for naught,” says I, mightily inclined to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!--why, man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like to see--I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.” “Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!” says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for good in a few hours?” “Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I always carry about my person--a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath worked the marvellousest cures.” “With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand straight in the morning.”