"Where does he live?"

"Live? Well, not three hundred yards from here, when he's at home, but
he's generally on the go. He's what the American Indians would call a
medicine-man."

"He needs his own medicine now."

"He's over eighty, and he must have gone dizzy, stumbled, fallen, and
struck a stone. There's the mark on his temple. He's been lying here
unconscious ever since; but his pulse is all right, and we'll soon have
him fit again."

So saying, Dyck whipped out a horn containing spirit, and, while Sheila
lifted the injured head, he bathed the old man's face with the spirit,
then opened the mouth and let some liquor trickle down.

"He's the cleanest peasant I ever saw," remarked Sheila; "and he's coming
to. Look at him!"

Yes, he was coming to. There was a slight tremor of the eyelids, and
presently they slowly opened. They were eyes of remarkable poignancy and
brightness--black, deep-set, direct, full of native intelligence. For an
instant they stared as if they had no knowledge, then understanding came
to them.

"Oh, it's you, sir," his voice said tremblingly, looking at Dyck. "And
very kind it is of ye !" Then he looked at Sheila. "I don't know ye,"
he said whisperingly, for his voice seemed suddenly to fail. "I don't
know ye," he repeated, "but you look all right."