“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.”