Alice, whose fears for her father were now something abated, upon this new movement among the persons of the scene, could not resist appealing to her venerable assistant. “Good doctor, answer me but one question. Was my brother Albert here just now, or have I dreamed all that has happened for these ten minutes past? Methinks, but for your presence, I could suppose the whole had passed in my sleep; that horrible thrust—that death-like, corpse-like old man—that soldier in mute despair; I must indeed have dreamed.” “If you have dreamed, my sweet Alice,” said the doctor, “I wish every sick-nurse had your property, since you have been attending to our patient better during your sleep than most of these old dormice can do when they are most awake. But your dream came through the gate of horn, my pretty darling, which you must remind me to explain to you at leisure. Albert has really been here, and will be here again.” “Albert!” repeated Sir Henry, “who names my son?” “It is I, my kind patron,” said the doctor; “permit me to bind up your arm.” “My wound?—with all my heart, doctor,” said Sir Henry, raising himself, and gathering his recollection by degrees. “I knew of old thou wert body-curer as well as soul-curer, and served my regiment for surgeon as well as chaplain.—But where is the rascal I killed?—I never made a fairer _stramaçon_ in my life. The shell of my rapier struck against his ribs. So, dead he must be, or my right hand has forgot its cunning.” “Nobody was slain,” said the doctor; “we must thank God for that, since there were none but friends to slay. Here is a good cloak and doublet, though, wounded in a fashion which will require some skill in tailor-craft to cure. But I was your last antagonist, and took a little blood from you, merely to prepare you for the pleasure and surprise of seeing your son, who, though hunted pretty close, as you may believe, hath made his way from Worcester hither, where, with Joceline’s assistance, we will care well enough for his safety. It was even for this reason that I pressed you to accept of your nephew’s proposal to return to the old Lodge, where a hundred men might be concealed, though a thousand were making search to discover them. Never such a place for hide-and-seek, as I shall make good when I can find means to publish my Wonders of Woodstock.” “But, my son—my dear son,” said the knight, “shall I not then instantly see him! and wherefore did you not forewarn me of this joyful event?”