“And how would you live yourself?”

“Ow! lea’ ye that to me, my lord.  Only dinna imagine I wad be behauden to yer lordship.  I houp I hae mair pride nor that.  Ilka poun’-not’, shillin’ an’ bawbee sud be laid oot for her, an’ what was left hainet (saved) for her.”

“By Jove! it’s a daring proposal!” said the marquis; and, which seemed strange to Malcolm, not a single thread of ridicule ran through the tone in which he made the remark.

The next day came, but brought neither strength of body nor of mind with it.  Again his professional attendants besought him, and he heard them more quietly, but rejected their proposition as positively as before.  In a day or two he ceased to oppose it, but would not hear of preparation.  Hour glided into hour, and days had gathered to a week, when they assailed him with a solemn and last appeal.

“Nonsense!” answered the marquis.  “My leg is getting better.  I feel no pain—­in fact, nothing but a little faintness.  Your damned medicines, I haven’t a doubt.”

“You are in the greatest danger, my lord.  It is all but too late even now.”

“To-morrow, then, if it must be.  To-day I could not endure to have my hair cut, positively; and as to having my leg off—­pooh! the thing’s preposterous.”

He turned white and shuddered, for all the nonchalance of his speech.

When to-morrow came there was not a surgeon in the land who would have taken his leg off.  He looked in their faces, and seemed for the first time convinced of the necessity of the measure.

“You may do as you please,” he said:  “I am ready.”

“Not to-day, my lord,” replied the doctor—­“your lordship is not equal to it to-day.”

“I understand,” said the marquis, and paled frightfully and turned his head aside.

When Mrs. Courthope suggested that Lady Florimel should be sent for, he flew into a frightful rage, and spoke as it is to be hoped he had never spoken to a woman before.  She took it with perfect gentleness, but could not repress a tear.  The marquis saw it, and his heart was touched.  “You mustn’t mind a dying man’s temper,” he said.

“It’s not for myself, my lord,” she answered.

“I know:  you think I’m not fit to die; and, damn it! you are right.  Never one was less fit for heaven or less willing to go to hell.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, my lord?” she suggested, sobbing.

He was on the point of breaking out into a still worse passion, but controlled himself.  “A clergyman!” he cried:  “I would as soon see the undertaker.  What could he do but tell me I was going to be damned—­a fact I know better than he can?  That is, if it’s not all an invention of the cloth, as, in my soul, I believe it is.  I’ve said so any time these forty years.”

“Oh, my lord! my lord! do not fling away your last hope.”

“You imagine me to have a chance, then?  Good soul! you don’t know any better.”