"A blacksmith, sir."
"And where did you read of Pythagoras and the like?"
"At Oxford, sir."
"How comes it then that I find you in the dawn, wet with rain, buffeted by wind, and—most of all—a shoer of horses?"
But, instead of answering, I pointed to a twisted figure that lay beneath the opposite hedge.
"A man!" exclaimed the Preacher, "and asleep, I think."
"No," said I, "not in that contorted attitude."
"Indeed, you are right," said the Preacher; "the man is ill—poor fellow!" And, hurrying forward, he fell on his knees beside the prostrate figure.
He was a tall man, roughly clad, and he lay upon his back, rigid and motionless, while upon his blue lips were flecks and bubbles of foam.
"Epilepsy!" said I. The Preacher nodded and busied himself with loosening the sodden neckcloth, the while I unclasped the icy fingers to relieve the tension of the muscles.