His conversation thrilled me, and during some of his vivid recitals I ceased painting, and sat down to listen as one spellbound. He commenced with the struggles of the early Christians, graphically described the decline of the Roman power, and the rise of the Northern and Western nations. Then he became eloquent upon the Conquest of England, knowing that I was a native of that land, and so minutely described the field of Hastings, that one might have imagined he had been an eyewitness. He spoke of the persons of William and Harold, the weapons and armour used, and could answer my queries so exactly, that I began to fear there was something decidedly uncanny about my model. From the Conquest he took me, in thought and word, right through the Crusades, and with sparkling eyes described the principal actors on the bloody fields of Holy Land, and when describing the prowess and fierceness in battle of our Richard Cœur de Lion, he became so excited in his recital, that, despite his injured foot, he rose from his couch in the centre of the room, and taking up a mahl-stick, struck and thrust in all directions, to explain to me how he of the lion’s heart bore himself. I was speechless with amazement; my crippled patient was dancing about the room with the vigour of a youth of twenty, quite regardless of the mangled foot, which apparently gave him but little concern, and less pain. “My friend,” I exclaimed loudly, “your foot!--think of your injuries! Your description is wonderful, magnificent, but do not forget your crippled state!” “Ha!” he returned, “seven times seven have passed over me, and my foot is perfect again. See!” Saying which he tore off the bandages, and exhibited to my startled eyes a foot without even a scar. I now began to feel a strange fear creeping over me, and I asked him what he meant by “seven times seven passing over him?” To which question, as near as I can recollect, his reply was this. “My friend, I will tell you what my meaning is, on one condition--that for three months from now you will not divulge a word of what I am about to speak to you. If you do, may the burden of your insincerity be on your own head! You have proved yourself a friend to a stranger, and the fact of your not knowing whom you have assisted, makes your act one of greater charity, and your kindness, like that of the Good Samaritan in my young days, shall be rewarded ere we part.” What, I thought, does he mean by the Good Samaritan of his youth? I knew of but one: he of whom we read in the New Testament parable; and I was about to ask him the meaning of this second enigma, when he motioned me not to interrupt, and proceeded with his remarkable monologue. “By ‘seven times seven’ I mean, that although an accident may befall me, as it may any other man, yet, after seven times seven hours have passed away, I shall be sound again. “I am keenly sensible to pain and to all human feelings, but _I cannot know death_!