they had time to come to him, not complaining nor accusing, nor encouraging them to revenge him upon Guiscard; his countenance serene, unaltered; so that, from his own behaviour, all his friends, particularly his tenderest Mr. St. John, hoped he was but slightly hurt. When Busiere the surgeon searched the wound, they were all surprised to find it so dangerous; the penknife was struck aslant and buried in the wound, which Mr. Harley himself took out, wiped, called for the handle, and said, "They belong to me." He asked "if the wound were mortal, as he had affairs to settle." Even in our incredulous age, we may term his escape a miracle: the blow was struck exactly upon his breastbone, which broke the knife; had it been an inch lower, it had touched the diaphragma, and all the world could not have saved his life: or a nail's breadth deeper, it would have reached his heart. I have heard it affirmed, "that, if one should attempt a thousand times at an imitation of Guiscard's design, without his rage and force; not once in that thousand times would it be probable that a life could escape the blow, as Mr. Harley's has done." He had a double deliverance, first from the knife striking upon the breastbone, and then from its breaking there; he must else have been murdered by the repetition of the blow. Neither was the cure less doubtful; the contusion was more dangerous than the wound itself: about a week after, the bruised blood fell down, which held his life in suspense. He had been ill for some time before, and was not as yet recovered.
As soon as Mr. Harley was dressed, he ordered the surgeon to take care of mons. de Guiscard; and
was
