Vol.1 f.047 recto

scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and, by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.
"Barnaby," said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, "this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit."
"I know him, I know him!" cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.
"Know him?" repeated the locksmith.
Hush!" said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. "He went out to-day a wooing. I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as bright as -- see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are they? If they are angels' eyes, why do they look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all the night?"
"Now Heaven help this silly fellow," murmured the perplexed locksmith; "can he know this gentleman? His mother's house is not far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby, my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we'll ride home together."
"I can't touch him!" cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a strong spasm; "he's bloody!"
"It’s in his nature, I know," muttered the locksmith, "it's cruel to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby -- good Barnaby -- dear Barnaby -- if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody's life that loves