“We will be responsible for his bill,” rejoined Fred, soothingly.  “You have been grievously hurt, and need better attention than we can give you.”

“But I say no,” reiterated Mr. Critchet; “I shall get well, and to you alone will the praise be due.  And hark ye, young men! don’t be too forward hereafter in volunteering to assume another’s debts.  You may live to repent it.  Now let me rest for an hour or two, and when I awake I think that I shall feel stronger.”

The old man, who spoke with a sort of dictatorial officiousness, as though he had been accustomed to command all his lifetime, closed his eyes, and in a few minutes was in a troubled sleep; and as he did not require the services of both of us to attend him, I went to bed, and left Fred watching by his side, with the understanding that I was to be called at daylight, so that I could relieve him and let him obtain a few hours’ rest, which he very much needed.

Fred called me at the specified time, but our patient, instead of being better, was much worse, and was laboring under the effects of a high fever.  A dozen times he attempted to leave his bed, and as often did I restrain him, and soothe him with kind words, until at length, just before daylight, I recollected a bottle of opium that I had in my trunk, and I managed to get it and persuade the sick man to take a large dose, which he did under the impression that I was a servant, and was handing him a glass of wine.

The opiate acted in a beneficial manner, for his system was so weakened that it set him into a deep sleep, which lasted for a number of hours; and before he had awakened we had removed him to a little room that we had partitioned off from the main store, where he could be free from most of the noise and confusion that large sales occasioned.

About sunrise, the first person that entered the store was the old man’s nephew, Follet.  He looked agitated and alarmed, and shuddered when he saw the stains of blood upon the doorstep, and also on the floor of the store where we had rested the old man before putting him on the mattress.  He did not raise his eyes to our faces, although many times I endeavored to get a fair glance at his face, to see if I could read his thoughts.

“I have bad news this morning,” he said, at length, finding we were not disposed to open the conversation.

“Have you, indeed?” asked Fred, with a slight sneer.

“I slept from my uncle’s tent last night,” he went on to say, “and upon returning this morning I find that there has been violence and robbery committed.  My poor relative is missing, and I fear murdered, for his bed is bloody, and tracks of blood are to be seen on the ground.”

“And in regard to the robbery,” Fred asked, “how do you know that he has lost any thing?”

“O, I am positive on that score, because my uncle had about a thousand ounces of gold, in nuggets and fine dust, buried under one corner of his tent, and the treasure is gone,” cried Follet, eagerly.