"Then, Max," he said, "I think that you know already that which I am going to say to you. However, it is better to say it. It is not possible that I shall live very long."
He paused, but Max said nothing. He sat, still holding Bertrand's wrist, his gaze upon the opposite wall.
"You knew it, no?" Bertrand questioned.
"I suspected it," Max said. He turned slightly and looked at the man upon the bed. "This isn't your first attack," he said.
Bertrand shuddered irrepressibly. "Nor my second," he said.
"I can give you something to ease the pain," Max said. "But if you're wise you will consult a doctor."
Again a faint smile flickered over Bertrand's face. "I am not enough wise," he said, "to desire to prolong my life under these conditions."
"I should say the same myself," observed Max somewhat curtly.
He offered no further advice, but sat on, waiting apparently for further developments.
After a little Bertrand proceeded. "I have known now for some time that this malady was incurable. I think that I would not have it otherwise, for I am very tired. I am old too—much older than even you can comprehend. I have undergone the suffering of a lifetime, and I am too tired to suffer much more. But—look you, Max—I do not want to make suffer those my friends whom I shall leave behind. That is why I pray that the end may come quick—quick. And, till then—I will bear my pain alone."