Twenty minutes of repose: surely this meant recovery. Fulvia's face grew bright, Nigel's less harassed. The sufferer seemed peaceful, and breathed more easily, not struggling.
Then he woke, and the first words were, "Nigel! Call Nigel."
"I am here, father." Nigel rose and came nearer, glad to have stayed.
"My dear, dear boy!" Mr. Browning said feebly.
"A little better?" Nigel asked.
"I don't know. Just at this moment—perhaps—" He looked from one to the other in a wistful troubled fashion, strangely, too, as if gazing from a distance. "Something I had to say," he murmured. "If I were not so—so weak—"
"You must not talk, padre," said Fulvia.
A great agony came into his face, changing its very form.
"Fulvie, forgive—forgive," he groaned.
"Don't, padre—oh don't," she cried. "Don't think—don't worry yourself; only get well, for madre's sake."