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No! He drew a deep breath and sank down into a chair,
where he sat, sighing and rubbing the palms of his hands
together, until the door really opened. A middle-aged
woman wearing a huge flounced cap of red-dotted stuff
appeared and beckoned cautiously to him. The pastor
pulled himself together, stuck his prayer-book under his
arm, smoothed his cassock, and entered the sick-chamber.
The large oval room was wainscoted in dark wood from
floor to ceiling. From the central panel, depressed below
the surface of the wall, grinned a row of hideous,
white-toothed heads of blackamoors and Turks, painted in gaudy
colors. The deep, narrow lattice-window was partially
veiled by a sash-curtain of thin, blue-gray stuff, leaving
the lower part of the room in deep twilight, while the
sunbeams played freely on the painted ceiling, where horses,
weapons, and naked limbs mingled in an inextricable
tangle, and on the canopy of the four-poster bed, from which
hung draperies of yellow damask fringed with silver.
The air that met the pastor, as he entered, was warm,
and so heavy with the scent of salves and nostrums that
for a moment he could hardly breathe. He clutched a chair
for support, his head swam, and everything seemed to be
whirling around him—the table covered with flasks and
phials, the window, the nurse with her cap, the sick man
on the bed, the sword-rack, and the door opening into the
adjoining room where a fire was blazing in the grate.
“The peace of God be with you, my lord!” he greeted
in a trembling voice as soon as he recovered from his
momentary dizziness.
“What the devil d’ ye want here ?” roared the sick man,
trying to lift himself in bed.
“Gemach, gnädigster Herr, gemach!” Shoemaker’s Anne,
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