In the large library, and on a bed hastily brought down for the purpose, lay Forester, his dress disordered, and his features devoid of all color. The glazed expression of his eye, and his pallid, half-parted lips showed that he was suffering from great loss of blood, for, unhappily, Mr. Daly's surgery had not succeeded in arresting this symptom. His breathing was short and irregular, and in the convulsive movement of his fingers might be seen the evidence of acute suffering. At the side of the bed, calm, motionless, and self-possessed, with an air as stern as a soldier at his post, stood Sandy M'Grane; he had been ordered by his master to maintain a perfect silence, and to avoid, if possible, even a reply to Forester's questions, should he speak to him. The failure of the first few efforts on Forester's part to obtain an infraction of this rule ended in his submitting to his destiny, and supplying by signs the want of speech; in this way he had just succeeded in procuring a drink of water, when Daly entered, followed by Hickman. As with slow and noiseless steps they came forward, Forester turned his head, and, catching a glance of the mechanism by which old Peter regulated his progression, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir,” said Sandy, sternly; “ye are lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it's no time for a hearty laugh. Ech! ech! sir,” continued he, turning towards his master, “if we had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say but we 'd stap it yet.” By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man's wrist, and, with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse aloud. “It's a hundred and fifty,” said he, in a whisper, which, although intended for Daly's ear, was overheard by Forester; “but it's thin as a thread, and looks like inward bleeding.” “What's to be done, then? have you anything to advise?” said Daly, almost savagely. “Very little,” said Hickman, with a malignant grin, “except writing to his friends. I know nothing else to serve him.” A brief shudder passed over Daly's stern features, rather like the momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and then he said, “I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is there nothing can be done for him?” “Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a little wine, for he's sinking fast. I 've got a case of instruments and some lint in the gig--never go without the tools, Mr. Daly--there's no knowing when one may meet a little accident like this.” “In Heaven's name, then, lose no time!” said Daly. “Whatever you can do, do it at once.” The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room. “My servant will bring what you want,” said Daly, impatiently.