'Why does he not go?' he muttered in his throat. 'Does he wait for my death?'
'Oh, Réné! hush, hush!' she said, with horror and amaze. 'My love, how can you say such things? You are in no danger; the doctor assures me so. In a week or two you will be well, you will be yourself.'
'Send your cousin away.'
She hesitated; troubled by his unreasoning, restless jealousy, which seemed to be the only consciousness of life remaining with him. 'I will obey you, love; you are lord here,' she said softly; 'but will it not look strange? No guest can well be told to go.'
'A guest!—he is an enemy!'
She sighed, knowing how hopelessly reason can struggle against the delusions of a sick bed. 'I will tell him to go to-morrow,' she said, to soothe him. 'To-night it is too late.'
'Write to him—do not leave me.'
There was a childlike appeal in his voice, that from a man so strong had a piteous pathos. Her eyes swam with tears as she heard.
'Oh, my dearest, I will not leave you!' she said passionately, 'not for one moment whilst I live; and oh, my beloved! what could death ever change in me? Have you so little faith?'
'You do not know,' he said, so low that his breath scarcely stirred the air.