Shortly after the above conversation he had another and extremely violent attack of asthma. It prostrated him completely, so that for several days he could not speak. Afterwards he became a little better, but it was evident to every one that he was dying, and it was touching to see the earnest way in which the tearful women, who were so fond of him, vied with each other in seeking to relieve his sufferings.
John Adams sat by his bedside almost continually at last. He seemed to require neither food nor rest, but kept watching on hour after hour, sometimes moistening the patient’s lips with water, sometimes reading a few verses out of the Bible to him.
“John,” said the poor invalid one afternoon, faintly, “your hand. I’m going—John—to be—for ever with the Lord—the dear Lord!”
There was a long pause, then—
“You’ll—carry on—the work, John; not in your own strength, John—in His?”
Adams promised earnestly in a choking voice, and the sick man seemed to sink to rest with a smile on his lips. He never spoke again. Next day he was buried under the palm-trees, far from the home of his childhood, from the land which had condemned him as a heartless mutineer.