The contest ceased all in a moment. He lay back motionless with half-closed eyes, his face blue against the white pillows. The blood had ceased at last to flow from his colourless lips. Death was very near.
He knew no one. Not the Bishop, not Magdalen who kept watch beside him, listening ever for Wentworth's step outside.
In the dawn Michael's spirit made as if to depart, but it seemed as if it could not gain permission.
The light grew.
And with the light the laboured breathing became easier. He stirred feebly, and whispered incoherently from time to time. He was still in his cell. Wentworth's name, the Italian doctor's, rose to his lips. Then, after a pause, he said suddenly:
"The Duke is dead. She will come now."
There was a long silence. He was waiting, listening.
The Bishop and Magdalen held their breath. Fay knew at last what it is to fail another. She had failed Michael. Wentworth had failed her.
"Fay!" Michael said, "come soon."
She had to bear it, the waiting, the faltered anguish, the suspense, the faint reiterated call to deaf ears.