ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had
ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were
limp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his
side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and
some particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the
ornamental portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition
of all the motley 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.'