All through that day and night the power of her Grace’s white arm was the thing which saved him from dashing out his brains. The two men could not have held him, and at his greatest frenzy they observed that now and then his bloodshot eye would glance aside at the beauteous face above him. The sound of the word “Clo” had struck upon his brain and wakened an echo.
She sent away the men to rest, calling for others in their places; but leave the bedside herself she would not. ’Twas a strange thing to see her strength and bravery, which could not be beaten down. When the doctor came again he found her there, and changed his surly and reluctant manner in the presence of a duchess, and one who in her close linen gown wore such a mien.
“You should not have left him,” she said to him unbendingly, “even though I myself can see there is little help that can be given. Thought you his Grace and I would brook that he should die alone if we could not have reached him?”
Those words “his Grace and I” put a new face upon the matter, and all was done that lay within the man’s skill; but most was he disturbed concerning the lady, who would not be sent to rest, and whose noble consort would be justly angered if she were allowed to injure her superb health.
“His Grace knew what I came to do and how I should do it,” the duchess said, unbending still. “But for affairs of State which held him, he would have been here at my side.”
She held her place throughout the second night, and that was worse than the first—the paroxysms growing more and more awful; for Jack was within a yard, and stretched out a green and mouldy hand, the finger-bones showing through the flesh, the while he smiled awfully.
At last one pealing scream rang out after another, until after making his shuddering body into an arc resting on heels and head, the madman fell exhausted, his flesh all quaking before the eye. Then the duchess waved the men who helped, away. She sat upon the bed’s edge close—close to her father’s body, putting her two firm hands on either of his shoulders, holding him so, and bent down, looking into his wild face, as if she fixed upon his very soul all the power of her wondrous will.
“Father,” she said, “look at my face. Thou canst if thou wilt. Look at my face. Then wilt thou see ’tis Clo—and she will stand by thee.”
She kept her gaze upon his very pupils; and though ’twas at first as if his eyes strove to break away from her look, their effort was controlled by her steadfastness, and they wandered back at last, and her great orbs held them. He heaved a long breath, half a big, broken sob, and lay still, staring up at her.
“Ay,” he said, “’tis Clo! ’tis Clo!”