“Next day came, and the relatives and friends were delighted, for the pain was nearly all gone, and the injured man lay very still.
“‘He’ll soon get well now,’ they said; and they went away full of hope and quite satisfied; but the monk, after he had given the patient some refreshing drink, went out into his garden among his trees, and then after walking about in the sunny walk under the old stone wall, he stopped by the mossy seat by the sun-dial, and stood looking down at the gnomon, whose shadow marked the hours, and sighed deeply as he thought how many times the shadow would point to noon before his poor patient was dead.”
“Why, I thought he was getting better,” I said.
“Carry your ladder to the next tree, Grant,” said the old gentleman, “and you shall work while I prattle.”
I obeyed him, and this time I had a great apple-tree bough to operate upon with the thin saw. I began using the saw very gently, and listening, for I seemed to see that monk in his long grey garment, and rope round his waist, looking down at the sun-dial, when Old Brownsmith went on slowly:
“He knew it could not be long first, for the man’s leg was crushed and the bone splintered so terribly that it would never heal up, and that the calm sense of comfort was a bad sign, for the limb was mortifying, and unless that mortification was stopped the man must die.”
“Poor fellow!” I ejaculated, for the old man told the story with such earnestness that it seemed to be real.
“Yes, poor fellow! That is what the monk said as he thought of all the herbs and decoctions he had made, and that not one of them would stop the terrible change that was going on. He felt how helpless he was, and at last, Grant, he sat down on the mossy old stone bench, and covering his face with his hands, cried like a child.”
“But he was a man,” I said.
“Yes, my lad; but there are times when men are so prostrated by misery and despair that they cry like women—not often—perhaps only once or twice in a man’s life. My monk cried bitterly, and then he jumped up, feeling ashamed of himself, and began walking up and down. Then he went and stood by the great fish stew, where the big carp and tench were growing fatter as they fed by night and basked in the sunshine among the water weeds by day; but no thought came to him as to how he could save the poor fellow lying in the cell.”