"My child!" murmured the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if I could but have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my sister Augusta and to her children.... You must take it, too, to Lady Byron.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... you stand well in her estimation...."
The dying man's voice failed him, and, although he made efforts to continue speaking, the valet could only make out disjointed expressions, from which, with the greatest difficulty, he gathered the following:—
"Fletcher ... if you do not carry out ... the orders I have given you ... I will haunt you ... if God will let me...."
"But, my lord," cried the valet in despair, "I have not been able to hear a word of what you have been saying to me."
"Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it is now too late.... Have you really not heard me?"
"No, my lord; but try again to make me understand your wishes."
"Impossible!... impossible!" murmured the dying man; "it is too late ... all is over ... and yet ... come close, come close, Fletcher ... I will try again."
And he renewed his attempts, but all was in vain; he could only utter a few broken words, such as, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You know all ... you will tell them everything ... you know my wishes."
Nothing more was intelligible.
This was at midday on the 18th. The doctors held a fresh consultation, and decided to give the patient quinine in wine.