I thought it plain that this business with knife and needle was intended to give me a deceiving resemblance to some other man, in all likelihood a boatman or sailor, for such fellows had a custom of wearing figures and letters imprinted on breast or arm. The man into whose likeness I was to be changed had, I supposed, a broken nose and a scar on his cheek. But I could not see how this marking and mutilation would avail much, so long as I had the use of my tongue. Still, Boswell must have considered this. He must have thought how easy it would be for me to declare who I was, and to give proof of my identity. Must he not be prepared for such a certain event? There came to my mind stories I had heard of the disappearance of persons who stood between others and a great inheritance, and of the abduction of persons who might be inconvenient witnesses against men of rank and power. Some of these stories ran on to the discovery of such persons in after years, rendered blind or mute, or reduced to idiocy, by the art and craft of gipsies. I had smiled at these fireside tales of the peasantry, but as I lay helplessly bound on this ninth day of my imprisonment within a few miles of home, smarting and aching under wounds inflicted by gipsy tools, I became more credulous. Boswell might deprive me of sight or speech or strength by a knife-thrust, or even the prick of a needle. How I had laughed at the warnings of Bess! But the event had more than justified them. Well, come what might, there was only one course for me, to play the man and trust in God, as I vowed to do to the end. There is no need to linger over the details of the next few days. Boswell attended closely on me for a week, treating my wounds with salve, and compelling me to drink a quantity of some abominable decoction. He eased my bonds from time to time, but took good heed to prevent my having freedom to use my arms, while I watched closely for any opportunity.