“I can only say to you once more, my lord, thank me that I did not break your head.” And with this our hero, who had changed places with his antagonist during the conflict, turned on his heel and walked swiftly away. Lord Oakleigh watched him till a bend in the path had hidden him from view, and then burst forth into a torrent of oaths and imprecations and threats of vengeance, dire and deadly. By and by, when he had regained sense enough to realize the needs of his situation, he bethought him of what he had better do. He was confident his wrist was broken. His best plan would be to see the village surgeon, whom he knew as a man of skill and judgment. He managed to pick up his sword with his left hand and return it to its scabbard, after which he set forth for the village, distant less than a mile. He was fortunate enough to find the surgeon at home, an elderly man, and really skillful in the way of his profession. He knew the young lord by sight, and was ready, and even eager, to be of service; but with not a particle of servility. He would have been just as earnest to help the poorest man in the town. Oakleigh told him he had received a kick from a horse. And the surgeon, when he examined it, decided that it had been a pretty furious kick, and it was curious that the remark should have fallen from his lips, “Be thankful, my lord, it was not your head. You would never have come to me to fix it for you.” His lordship winced, and, doubtless, felt like swearing, but he contained himself. The surgeon informed him that two of the metacarpal bones were fractured and dislocated at their point of articulation with the carpus. “You are an Oxford man,” said the doctor, smilingly, “so, of course, you know what all that means.” “Certainly,” the sufferer answered; but he lied, and the old man suspected as much, but he made no further remark. The dislocation was reduced, and the two central bones of the hand were properly set, and a couple of light splints bound on to hold them in place while they healed. “I must go to Oxford at once,” said Oakleigh, when the surgeon had spoken of his calling again. “You can tell me how I must manage.” “When do you start?” “This very day.” “Then keep your hand in a good, firm sling; have your servant do your undressing and dressing for you, and as soon as you reach Oxford call on Dr. Cartwright and let him look at it. Mark you, don’t attempt to use that hand, and don’t you let either of those splints get out of place till you have seen the Oxford surgeon.” His lordship promised obedience with a nod, paid the fee, and departed: his hand--and his whole arm, for that matter--giving him an exquisite sense of pain. He did not think of wishing that he had kept clear of Percy Maitland. In that direction his thoughts were only of vengeance; and the imprecations that fell from his lips were terrible.