"She sha'n't do that," he said, "so help me God. What must I do--to save her?"
"Young man," said the legless man, "you must give me your legs."
Wilmot was at first bewildered.
"My legs?"
"They are to be grafted on my poor old stumps," said Blizzard. "You won't die. You'll just be as I am now. And I--I," his eyes shone with an unholy light, "shall be as you are now--a biped--a real man--a giant of a man. You are going to consent?"
"How do I know that you will let Miss Ferris go?"
"You shall have news of her freedom and safety in her own writing."
"When I have that assurance," said Wilmot, "I will consent to anything. Any decent man would give his life for a woman--why not his legs? Is Dr. Ferris to operate?"
"He will be the chief of three surgeons."
"But he won't cut off my legs. We're old friends. He--"