Finally he rises, and crossing the room deposits his hat upon a table, and removes his light outer coat.
“I shall stay,” he says briefly. “How long will he live?”
“He cannot last until morning, the surgeon says.”
“I will stay until the end.”
He resumes his seat and his listening attitude. It is sunset when his watch begins; the evening passes away, and still the patient mutters and moans.
It is almost midnight when his mutterings cease, and he falls into a slumber that looks like death.
At last there comes an end to the solemn stillness of the room. The dying man murmurs brokenly, opens his eyes with the light of reason in them once more, and recognizes his benefactor.
“You see—I was—right,” he whispers, a wan smile upon his face; “I am going to die.”
He labors a moment for breath, and then says:
“You have been so good—will—will you do one thing—more?”