touch it could burst into flames and cast fire about him. The doctor
was a stout burgher, with a florid face, dressed in black, peremptory,
greedy of gain, and self-important. These two personages were framed,
as it were, in that panelled chamber, hung with high-warped tapestries
of Flanders, the ceiling of which, made of carved beams, was blackened
by smoke. The furniture, the bed, all inlaid with arabesques in
pewter, would seem to-day more precious than they were at that period
when the arts were beginning to produce their choicest masterpieces.

"Lampreys are not good for you," replied the physician.

That title, recently substituted for the former term of
"myrrh-master," is still applied to the faculty in England. The
name was at this period given to doctors everywhere.

"Then what may I eat?" asked the king, humbly.

"Salt mackerel. Otherwise, you have so much bile in motion that you
may die on All-Souls' Day."

"To-day!" cried the king in terror.

"Compose yourself, sire," replied Coyctier. "I am here. Try not to
fret your mind; find some way to amuse yourself."

"Ah!" said the king, "my daughter Marie used to succeed in that
difficult business."

As he spoke, Imbert de Bastarnay, sire of Montresor and Bridore,
rapped softly on the royal door. On receiving the king's permission he