It was in very truth a vile night, the vilest of the winter, and that winter no green yule-tide. I was weary, and had been wet; all day in the saddle, my grey mare fetlock deep in slush and snow, and the saddle-bags, damp and soaking, swinging against my knees till my very joints were stiff. Weary, and a trifle out of spirits at the dull round of life, the prosaic duties of a village leech, the empty house which had greeted my return, and above all the thought that when others rested from their labours I was yet in harness. Mistress Pumphret, the squire's lady, was taken with an ague and like to die, so that at any moment there might come a rat-a-tat at the oak, which would mean for me a weary trudge with lanthorn and lancet, and no cosy bed and sound slumber.
