“Ye cud lea’ sae muckle to be waured (spent) upo’ the cairryin’ oot o’ yer lordship’s wull.”
“Who would see that you applied it properly?”
“My ain conscience, my lord—or Mr Graham, gien ye likit.”
“And how would you live yourself?”
“Ow! lea’ ye that to me, my lord. Only dinna imaigine I wad be behauden to yer lordship. I houp I hae mair pride nor that. Ilka poun’-not’, shillin’, an’ baubee 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!”