And yet you, my old friend, whom I ought to trust, condemn me to live on!" Doctor Samuel Ward took snuff again, but all the answer he made was to waggle his gray mane and stare hard at the face of the other.
"Yes," said he, at length, "I condemn you to fight on, John;" and he smiled grimly.
"Why, look at you, man!" he broke out fiercely, after a moment.

"The type and picture of combat! Good bone, fine bone and hard; a hard head and bony; little eye, set deep; strong, wiry muscles, not too big--fighting muscles, not dough; clean limbs; strong fingers; good arms, legs, neck; wide chest--" "Then you give me hope ?" Calhoun flashed a smile at him.
"No, sir! If you do your duty, there is no hope for you to live.

If you do not do your duty, there is no hope for you to die, John Calhoun, for more than two years to come--perhaps five years--six.

Keep up this work--as you must, my friend--and you die as surely as though I shot you through as you sit there.

Now, is this any comfort to you ?" A gray pallor overspread my master's face.