“You think I am going to sign this?”
“I want it in addition to the certificate of the cause of death which you will have to make out after my decease. 'Tis an unnecessary formality, but I would have it so,” Lot returned.
The doctor dashed the paper on the bed. “If you think I am going to subscribe to a lie for you, or any other man, you're mistaken,” he cried. “It was enough for me to hold my tongue when you made that fool statement of yours that wouldn't have deceived a man with the brains of an ox.”
“My death will be due to phthisis; my left lung is almost consumed, and you know it,” affirmed Lot.
“And I tell you,” said the 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!”