of his household suspect foul practice-witchcraft, or worse."
"What are the symptoms?" said Wayland Smith, stepping forward hastily.
"Anan?" said the messenger, not comprehending his meaning.
"What does he ail?" said Wayland; "where lies his disease?"
The man looked at Tressilian, as if to know whether he should answer these inquiries from a stranger, and receiving a sign in the affirmative, he hastily enumerated gradual loss of strength, nocturnal perspiration, and loss of appetite, faintness, etc.
"Joined," said Wayland, "to a gnawing pain in the stomach, and a low fever?"
"Even so," said the messenger, somewhat surprised.
"I know how the disease is caused," said the artist, "and I know the cause. Your master has eaten of the manna of Saint Nicholas. I know the cure too--my master shall not say I studied in his laboratory for nothing."
"How mean you?" said Tressilian, frowning; "we speak of one of the first nobles of England. Bethink you, this is no subject for buffoonery."
"God forbid!" said Wayland Smith. "I say that I know this disease, and can cure him. Remember what I did for Sir Hugh Robsart."
"We will set forth instantly," said Tressilian. "God calls us."
Accordingly, hastily mentioning this new motive for his instant departure, though withou
