"Is there aught more I can do for you?" inquired Leonard, after a pause.
"No," replied the sick man; "I have done with the world. With that child, the last tie that bound me to it was snapped. I now only wish to die."
"Do not give way thus," replied Leonard; "a short time ago my condition was as apparently hopeless as your own, and you see I am now perfectly recovered."
"You had something to live for—something to love," groaned the sick man. "All I lived for, all I loved, are gone."
"Be comforted, sir," said Nizza, in a commiserating tone. "Much happiness may yet be in store for you."
"That voice!" exclaimed the sick man, with a look denoting the approach of delirium. "It must be my Isabella. Oh! forgive me! sweet injured saint; forgive me!"
"Your presence evidently distresses him," said Leonard. "Let us hasten for assistance. Your name, sir?" he added, to the sick man.
"Why should you seek to know it?" replied the other. "No tombstone will be placed over the plague-pit."
"Not a moment must be lost if you would save him," cried Nizza.
"You are right," replied Leonard. "Let us fly to the nearest apothecary's."