The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point—the tardily aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his friend.
"What am I to do, James?" he asked—"what am I to do?"
Milbanke bent over him.
"Denis! Denis!" he pleaded.
"But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?"
Milbanke tightened his lips.
"You have friends," he said.
"Ah! but how many? And where?"
There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly he turned towards the bed.
"You have one—here," he said in a low voice.