e doctor, stoutly, "that your death from
phthisis might not have occurred for ten years to come. Does a tree
die because half its boughs are gone? When you die, you die of that
wound. The evil was greater than I thought at the time. It takes less
to kill a diseased man than a sound one."

"Then my death will be due to my disease and not to my wound, if it
would not have killed a sound man," cried Lot, eagerly.

"I tell you, your death will be due to that wound that Madelon
Hautville, with maybe your cousin at her back, gave you."

Lot's face glared white at the doctor. "I gave the wound to myself!"

The doctor laughed.

"I tell you, I gave the wound myself!"

"Take your wound into court, and see what they say."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll give any man who will stab himself in just the same place, with
the knife held in just the same way, every dollar I have in the
world."

"You can't prove it."

"I can prove it."

"I can do away with your proof," said Lot, in a strange voice. The
doctor looked at him sharply.

"Then you will not sign this paper?" Lot said, presently.

"No, I will not; and I tell you, once for all, when you die I make
out my certificate as it should be."

"How?"

"By a wound from a knife or other sharp instrument, inflicted by a
person or persons unknown."

Lot's face, towards the doctor, looked as if death had already struck
it; but he spoke firmly. "How long will it be, first?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Approximate."

"A false step may do it."

"I can lie still!"

"A coughing-spell may do it."

"I will not cough!"

"More than that, a thought may do it, if it stirs your heart too
much. I tell you as I should want to be told myself: your life hangs
by a thread."

"Sometimes a thread does not break," Lot said, with a meditative
light in his eyes.

"That's true enough."

"This may not."

"True enough."

"How long will you give it to last, before you sign this paper?"

"A year."

"Then you will sign this if I live a year from to-day?"

"No, I will not sign it, for you may have another stab on New-year's
day, if you seem likely to live so long," said the doctor, shortly;
"but I will promise you not to make out your certificate of death
from this wound."

"How great a chance of life have I?" Lot asked, hoarsely, after a
minute's pause.

"Small."

"Yet there is one?"

"Yes."

The doctor opened his chest, and began selecting some bottles.

"I want no mo