one; and
in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.

His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there--apparently by
his own hands--with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was most
worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of tawdry
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.'

'I can't touch him!' cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as
with a strong spasm; he's bloody!'

'It's in his nature, I know,' muttered the locksmith, 'it's cruel to ask
him, but I must have help. Barnaby--good Barnaby--dear Barnaby--if you
know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody's life that
loves him, help me to raise him and lay him down.'

'Cover him then, wrap him close--don't let me see it--smell it--hear the
word. Don't speak the word--don't!'

'No, no, I'll not. There, you see he's covered now. Gently. Well done,
well done!'

They pla