Life springs to the rescue, and again grapples with her adversary. The
strife is renewed with fresh fuel added to the fire of mortal energy as
the fatal issue draws closer and nearer.

And the exhausted patient, himself the field of battle, weltering in the
cold sweat of death, the eye set and the arm powerless, can do nothing
for himself. His breathing, sometimes short, broken, and distressing,
sometimes long, deep, laboured, and heavy, indicates the varying phases
of this dreadful struggle.

The bystanders watch each other's faces, and they think, "The day will
come when we in our turns shall be the field of the same strife, and
victorious Death will bear us away into the grave, his den, as the spider
carries away the fly." But the true life, the only life, the soul,
spreading her immortal wings, will speed her flight to another world,
with the exulting cry, "I have fought the good fight. I have finished my
course. I have kept the faith!" And Death, disappointed of its prey, will
look up at the emancipated being, unable to follow, and holding in its
clutches only a cold and decaying corpse, soon to be a handful of dust.
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" O best and
only consolation, the hope and belief in the final triumph of justice,
the certainty of immortal life through Jesus Christ the Saviour! Cruel
indeed is he who would rob man of the chief brightness and glory of life!

Towards midnight the Count of Nideck seemed almost gone; the agony of
death was at hand; the broken, weakened pulse indicated the sinking of
the vital powers; then, it might return to a more active state; but there
seemed no hope.

My only duty left was to stay and see this unhappy man die.