Buoyed up with the hope that help might arrive at any moment, I resolved, if possible, to soothe and flatter the maniac, with a view of gaining time and of getting him to postpone his self-imposed task beyond the midnight hour. I would persuade him to talk of his last picture, of his brother artists, of his early days at Rivoli—of anything, that would divert his attention from me, and delay the fatal stroke.
"Angelo, listen to me," I said, forcing my voice to adopt the slow deliberate tones I have heard hospital nurses employ in order that they may the more readily find lodgment in the disordered brain—"I am quite willing to die."
Even while saying this, the incongruity of telling a falsehood when so near the point of death occurred to me, but I repeated the falsehood:
"I am quite willing to die."
"It is sweet to die for art," cried the artist gravely, as if the remark were an indisputable axiom.
"I will not struggle with you."
This at least was true, for the silken bands would not let me.
"Daphne wished you not to struggle," remarked the madman.
"But before I go, tell me—tell me—" I hesitated, not knowing what to say next. "Tell me—what has become of my brother George?" I cried, on the spur of the moment. "You must know," I added.
"Your brother?" cried the artist, his eyes lighting up, as if some new chord in his memory were touched. "Your brother?"