’How skillfully she builds her cell,
  How neat she stores the wax!’

I consider you a fortunate fellow.”

The young men were obliged to smile at the doctor’s way of viewing the subject; but he paid little attention to their mirth.

“And I will remain, meanwhile, with you,” said William Bernard, which was the name of the gentleman who had accompanied the physician, addressing himself to Pownal, “if our good friend,”—­and here he looked at Holden—­“has no objection.”

The Recluse signified his assent; and Pownal, thanking his friend, the doctor gave his sanction to the arrangement.

“It will do you no harm, William,” he said, “to rough it for a night or two, and you will prove yourself thereby of a different stamp from Timon’s friends.”  And here the doctor, who loved to quote poetry, especially Shakspeare’s, better than to administer medicine, indulged again in his favorite habit: 

                “’As we do turn our backs
  From our companion thrown into his grave,
  So his familiars, to his buried fortunes,
  Slink all away; leave their false vows with him,
  Like empty purses picked, and his poor self
  A dedicated beggar to the air.’

But, Mr. Holden, lend me thy ears a moment, and thy tongue, too, if you please, for you must tell me how this happened.  I do not care to disturb Pownal with the inquiry.”

So saying, he walked out of the chamber, followed by the Recluse.

“Tell me first,” said Holden, as they stood in the open air, “what thou thinkest of the wound.”

“Ha!” cried the doctor, “’tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough—­’twill serve.”

“What!” exclaimed the Recluse, “hast thou been deceiving the boy!  But no, thou art incapable of that; and, besides, I have seen too many wounds to apprehend danger from this.”

“I see, friend, you have read Shakspeare to some purpose,” cried the doctor; “but know that I spoke not in the sense in which Mercutio speaks of the wound that Tybalt gave him.  My mirth is not so grave as poor Mercutio’s.  Look you, now, I told you but the simple truth, and what your own eyes have seen.  The wound is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door.  If it were—­admitting the physical possibility—­Pownal would be a monster to look at, and no dressings of mine would be of any use.  And it is enough, too.  You would not have it more.  Besides, ’twill serve; that is, to keep him a day or two in your cabin.  And herein consists one of the innumerable excellences of Shakspeare.  Every sentence is as full of matter as my saddle-bags of medicine.  Why, I will engage to pick out as many meanings in each as there are plums in a pudding.  But, friend, I am sure you must have a copy.  Let me see it.”