though I choose rather not to speak of it," answered Septimius.

"Have you, then, no desire nor interest to know the family, the personal
history, the prospects, of him who once wore this sword, and who will
never draw sword again?" inquired Doctor Portsoaken. "Poor Cyril Norton!
There was a singular story attached to that young man, sir, and a singular
mystery he carried about with him, the end of which, perhaps, is not
yet."

Septimius would have been, indeed, well enough pleased to learn the mystery
which he himself had seen that there was about the man whom he slew; but
he was afraid that some question might be thereby started about the secret
document that he had kept possession of; and he therefore would have
wished to avoid the whole subject.

"I cannot be supposed to take much interest in English family history. It
is a hundred and fifty years, at least, since my own family ceased to be
English," he answered. "I care more for the present and future than for
the past."

"It is all one," said the doctor, sitting down, taking out a pinch of
tobacco and refilling his pipe.

It is unnecessary to follow up the description of the visit of the
eccentric doctor through the day. Suffice it to say that there was a sort
of charm, or rather fascination, about the uncouth old fellow, in spite of
his strange ways; in spite of his constant puffing of tobacco; and in
spite, too, of a constant imbibing of strong liquor, which he made
inquiries for, and of which the best that could be produced was a certain
decoction, infusion, or distillation, pertaining to Aunt Keziah, and of