Now the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them with mournful reproach on the doctor’s face; he did not attempt to speak, but the great tears gathered slowly in his eyes, and the dark lashes closed again.
As usual Myra followed the doctor out of the room.
“Tell me,” she said; “he is no worse—he is getting well; there is no danger now.”
The doctor drew on his glove, smoothing it to the hand, while she was speaking.
“There is no hope, my dear madam; not a gleam. He must die before morning; did you not observe the black on his lips.”
“Die before morning—my husband. Oh, no! you want to see if I have all the courage people talk about; but you see, doctor, I am a poor little coward. One does not fight with death. Don’t you see how I tremble? Don’t, don’t carry this any further. I’m not very strong, and—and—oh, my God! my God! why don’t you speak to me?”
“Indeed, my poor lady, I have nothing more to say; it would give me great satisfaction to give you hope if I had any myself. But the last fatal symptom has come, no skill on earth can save him; it is but a question of time now—hardly that, in fact.”
The doctor was going down-stairs as he spoke, for he would gladly have avoided the anguish that came like a storm into that white face, but Myra sprang after him, seizing hold of his arm.
“O doctor! O doctor!” she cried, gasping for breath; “is this true?”
“Indeed, I regret to say it, but nothing could be more certain.”