“Well, I’d have it off—­as quick as it could come, that’s all.  If you don’t, you’ll lose your life.”

“You don’t mean that?” whispered Dunwody tensely, after a time.  “You don’t mean that, Doctor?”

“I mean every word I say.  It’s blood poisoning.”

The only answer his patient made was to reach a slow hand under his pillow and draw out a long-barreled revolver, which he laid upon the bed beside him.

“I didn’t think you such a coward,” ruminated Jamieson, rubbing his chin.

“If you think I’m afraid of the hurt of it, I’ll let you do your work first, and I’ll do mine afterward,” gasped Dunwody slowly.  “But I’m not going to live a cripple.  I’ll not be maimed.”

They looked each other firmly in the face.

“Is it so bad as all that, Doctor?” demanded Josephine.  Her answer was a sad look from the gray old eyes.  “Blood poison.  Some kind of an aggravation.  It’s traveling fast.”

Josephine gazed down at the bulky figure lying there prone, so lately full of rugged ferocity, now so weak and helpless.  Her eye fell on the weapon lying on the bed.  She gently removed it.

“That was what he preferred to my skill,” commented Jamieson.

Dunwody turned, his gaze on Josephine now.  “You don’t belong here, now,” said he at length.  “You’d better go away.”

“This is just where she does belong!” contradicted Jamieson.  “If she has courage to stay here, I want her.  I’ve got to have help.  She’ll do her duty, and with one hand tied!  Can’t you do as much?  Haven’t you any idea of duty in the world?”

“Duty!” Dunwody’s lips met in a bitter smile.

“Listen here, Mr. Dunwody,” began Josephine, “I’ve seen worse wounds than that, seen weaker men survive worse than that.  There’s a chance perhaps—­why don’t you take it like a man?  I exact it of you.  I demand it!  Your duty to me is unpaid.  Come.  We must live, all of us, till all our debts are paid.”

He made no answer at first save to look her straight in the face for a moment.  “Maybe there is such a thing as duty,” said he.  “Maybe I do owe it—­to you.  I’ve—­not yet—­paid enough.  Very well, then.”

“Come,” cried out Jamieson suddenly, “out you go on the table.  Get a hand under there, girl.”

There was no word further spoken.  Gently they aided the injured man to his feet and helped him hobble through the hall and into the great dining-room beyond, where stood the long table of polished mahogany.  Dunwody, swaying, leaned against it, while Jamieson hurried to the window and threw up the curtains to admit as much as possible of the light of late afternoon.  Returning, he motioned Dunwody to remove his coat, which he folded up for a pillow.  The remainder of his preparations necessarily were scant.  Hot water, clean instruments—­that was almost all.  An anaesthetic was of course out of the question.