I believe that they came and hoisted out the poor fellow under the tree, and carried him up to the old priory to have his broken leg cured by one of the monks, who would be out in his garden just the same as we are, Grant, cutting off and paring the broken boughs of his apple and pear trees.

Then they laid him in one of the cells, and his leg was bound up and dressed with healing herbs, and the poor fellow was left to get well." "And did he ?" I said.
"Then the gardener monk went out into the garden again and continued to trim off the broken branches, sawing these and cutting those, and thinking all the while about his patient in the cell.
"Then the next day came, and the poor fellow's relatives ran up to see him, and he was in very great agony, and they called upon the monks to help him, and they dressed the terrible injury again, and the poor fellow was very feverish and bad in spite of all that was done.

But at last he dropped off into a weary sleep, and the poor people went away thinking what a great thing it was to have so much knowledge of healing, while, as soon as they had gone the monk shook his head.
"Next day came, and the relatives and friends were delighted, for the pain was nearly all gone, and the injured man lay very still.
"`He'll soon get well now,' they said; and they went away full of hope and quite satisfied; but the monk, after he had given the patient some refreshing drink, went out into his garden among his trees, and then after walking about in the sunny walk under the old stone wall, he stopped by the mossy seat by the sun-dial, and stood looking down at the gnomon, whose shadow marked the hours, and sighed deeply as he thought how many times the shadow would point to noon before his poor patient was dead." "Why, I thought he was getting better," I said.
"Carry your ladder to the next tree, Grant," said the old gentleman, "and you shall work while I prattle." I obeyed him, and this time I had a great apple-tree bough to operate upon with the thin saw.

I began using the saw very gently, and listening, for I seemed to see that monk in his long grey garment, and rope round his waist, looking down at the sun-dial, when Old Brownsmith went on slowly: "He knew it could not be long first, for the man's leg was crushed and the bone splintered so terribly that it would never heal up, and that the calm sense of comfort was a bad sign, for the limb was mortifying, and unless that mortification was stopped the man must die." "Poor fellow!" I ejaculated, for the old man told the story with such earnestness that it seemed to be real.
"Yes, poor fellow! That is what the monk said as he thought of all the herbs and decoctions he had made, and that not one of them would stop the terrible change that was going on.

He felt how helpless he was, and at last, Grant, he sat down on the mossy old stone bench, and covering his face with his hands, cried like a child." "But he was a man," I said.
"Yes, my lad; but there are times when men are so prostrated by misery and despair that they cry like women--not often--perhaps only once or twice in a man's life.