“Bind it up and leave me,—leave me with him;” and Glencore pointed to Upton.
“I dar' n't move out of this spot,” said Billy, addressing Upton. “You'd have the blood coming out, per saltim, if I took away my finger.”
“You must be patient, Glencore,” said Upton, gently; “you know I'm always ready when you want me.”
“And you'll not leave this,—you'll not desert me?” cried the other, eagerly.
“Certainly not; I have no thought of going away.”
“There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I 'll not take the responsibility upon me,—I will not!” said Billy, angrily. “'Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye haven't more discretion.”
Glencore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said,—
“We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don't leave me.”
Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word.
“Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe,” said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to Upton, “and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that it is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater, that it can be plugged. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off, every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!”