"No."

"But you must renounce one."

"I cannot."

"And you cannot have both. What is to be done?"

"I must shoot myself!"

"Don't talk so, Scythrop! Be rational, Scythrop! Consider, and make a
cool, calm choice, and I will exert myself on your behalf."

"Well, sir, I will have--no, sir, I cannot renounce either. I cannot
choose either, and I have no resource but a pistol."

"Scythrop--Scythrop, if one of them should come to you, what then? Have
but a little patience, a week's patience, and it shall be."

"A week, sir, is an age; but to oblige you, as a last act of filial
duty, I will live another week. It is now Thursday evening, twenty-five
minutes past seven. At this hour next Thursday love and fate shall smile
on me, or I will drink my last pint of port in this world."

Mr. Glowry ordered his travelling chariot, and departed from the abbey.

* * * * *

On the morning of the eventful Thursday, Scythrop ascended the turret