The light was strong and white now, and a butterfly on the window-sill, that had mistaken spring for summer, waked, and began to beat its wings against the pane.
He rose wearily, and opened the old-fashioned window wide upon its hinges. The butterfly flew away into the spring morning.
'My other butterfly,' he said—'my pretty butterfly, who mistook the spring for summer, breaking your heart against the prison windows of my worn-out life—I will release you, too!'
He took up the little silver flask that always stood on his dressing-table at night and lived in his pocket by day, and which contained the only remedy which a great doctor could find for his attacks of the heart, by means of which he had been till now kept in life.
'I have a right to do it,' he said. 'I can only help them by going away. And if I am in the wrong, upon my head be it.'
He checked himself in the act of emptying the contents of the flask into the dead fire.
'A right?' he said. 'What right have I to shirk the consequences of my own actions? what right to be a coward? No; I will not go away until I receive permission to do so. I will stay while it is required of me.'
He sighed heavily, and replaced the flask upon the dressing-table.
'Patience,' he said. 'I thought I had seen the last of you. I am tired of you. But, nevertheless, I must put up with you a little longer.'