Quackinboss had, however, been keenly examining him while he spoke, and marked in his wildly excited eyes and flushed cheeks the signs of some high excitement “You ain't noways right; you 're wet through and cold, besides,” said he, taking his hand in both his own. “Do you feel ill?” “Yes; that is--I feel as if--I--had--lost my way,” muttered he, with long pauses between the words. “There 's nothing like bed and a sound sleep for that,” said the other, gently; while, taking Layton's arm, he led him quietly along towards the half-open door of his bedroom. Passively surrendering himself to the other's care, Alfred made no resistance to all he dictated, and, removing his dripping clothes, he got into bed. “It is here the most pain is now,” said he, placing his palm on his temple,--“here, and inside my head.” “I wish I could talk to that servant of yours; he don't seem a very bright sort of creetur, but I could make him of use.” With this muttered remark, Quackinboss walked back into the sitting-room, where Layton's man was now extinguishing the lights and the fire. “You have to keep that fire in, I say--fire--great fire--hot water. Understand me?” “'Strissimo! si,” said the Tuscan, bowing courteously. “Well, then, do you fetch some lemons--lemons. You know lemons, don't you?” A shrug was the unhappy reply. “Lemong--lemong! You know _them?_” “Limoni! oh si.” And he made the sign of squeezing them; and then, hastening out of the room, he speedily reappeared with lemons and other necessaries to concoct a drink. “That's it,--bravo, that's it! Brew it right hot, my worthy fellow,” said Quackinboss, with a gesture that implied the water was to be boiled immediately. He now returned to Layton, whom he found sitting up in the bed, talking rapidly to himself, but with all the distinctness of one perfectly collected. “By Marseilles I could reach Paris on Tuesday night, and London on Wednesday. Isn't there a daily packet for Genoa?” asked he, as Quackinboss entered. “Well, I guess there's more than 's good of 'em,” drawled out the other; “ill-found, ill-manned, dirty craft as ever I put foot in!” “Yes, but they leave every day, don't they?” asked Layton, impatiently. “I ain't posted up in their doin's, nor I don't want to, that's a fact. We went ashore with a calm sea and a full moon, coming up from Civita- Vecchia--” Layton burst into a laugh at the strange pronunciation,--a wild, unearthly sort of laugh that ended in a low, faint sigh, after which he lay back like one exhausted. “I 'm a-goin' to take a little blood from you, I am!” said Quackinboss, producing a lancet which, from its shape and size, seemed more conversant with horse than human practice. “I 'll not be bled! How am I to travel a journey of seven, eight, or ten days and nights, if I 'm bled?” cried the sick man, angrily. “I 've got to bleed you, and I 'll do it!” said Quackinboss, as, taking ont his handkerchief, he tore a long strip, like a ribbon, from its border.