More and more, however, he desired the attendance of Malcolm, who was consequently a great deal about him, serving with a love to account for which those who knew his nature would not have found it necessary to fall back on the instinct of the relation between them. The marquis had soon satisfied himself that that relation was as yet unknown to him, and was all the better pleased with his devotion and tenderness.
The inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length the doctors determined to amputate. But the marquis was absolutely horrified at the idea,—shrank from it with invincible repugnance. The moment the first dawn of comprehension vaguely illuminated their periphrastic approaches, he blazed out in a fury, cursed them frightfully, called them all the contemptuous names in his rather limited vocabulary, and swore he would see them——uncomfortable first.
“We fear mortification, my lord,” said the physician calmly.
“So do I. Keep it off,” returned the marquis.
“We fear we cannot, my lord.”
It had, in fact, already commenced.
“Let it mortify, then, and be damned,” said his lordship.
“I trust, my lord, you will reconsider it,” said the surgeon. “We should not have dreamed of suggesting a measure of such severity had we not had reason to dread that the further prosecution of gentler means would but lessen your lordship’s chance of recovery.”
“You mean then that my life is in danger?”
“We fear,” said the physician, “that the amputation proposed is the only thing that can save it.”