"Truly, I think so," returned the patient. "They are manifest asses; but you, good Leech, you are a horse of another colour. The world talks loudly of your learning, your skill, and cunning in arts the most abstruse; nay, sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefore, and stickle not to aver that you are cater-cousin with Beelzebub himself." "It is ever the fate of science," murmured the professor, "to be maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. But a truce with such folly; let me examine your palate." Master Marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as beetroot. "There is nothing wrong there," said the Leech. "Your wrist:--no;--the pulse is firm and regular, the skin cool and temperate. Sir, there is nothing the matter with you!" "Nothing the matter with me, Sir 'Potecary?--But I tell you there is the matter with me,--much the matter with me. Why is it that something seems ever gnawing at my heart-strings?--Whence this pain in the region of the liver?--Why is it that I sleep not o' nights,--rest not o' days? Why?" "You are fidgety, Master Marsh," said the doctor. Master Marsh's brow grew dark; he half rose from his seat, supported himself by both hands on the arms of his elbow-chair, and in accents of mingled anger and astonishment repeated the word "Fidgety!" "Ay, fidgety," returned the doctor calmly. "Tut, man, there is nought ails thee save thine own overweening fancies. Take less of food, more air, put aside thy flagon, call for thy horse; be boot and saddle the word! Why,--hast thou not youth?--" "I have," said the patient. "Wealth and a fair domain?" "Granted," quoth Marsh cheerily. "And a fair wife?" "Yea," was the response, but in a tone something less satisfied. "Then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, betake thyself to thy lawful occasions,--use thy good hap,--follow thy pleasures, and think no more of these fancied ailments." "But I tell you, master mine, these ailments are not fancied. I lose my rest, I loathe my food, my doublet sits loosely on me,--these racking pains. My wife, too,--when I meet her gaze, the cold sweat stands on my forehead, and I could almost think--" Marsh paused abruptly, mused awhile, then added, looking steadily at his visitor, "These things are not right; they pass the common, Master Erasmus Buckthorne." A slight shade crossed the brow of the Leech, but its passage was momentary; his features softened to a smile, in which pity seemed slightly blended with contempt. "Have done with such follies, Master Marsh. You are well, an you would but think so. Ride, I say, hunt, shoot, do anything,--disperse these melancholic humours, and become yourself again."