progress--the silence of a deep farewell; for I felt in all my pulses, as
Theobald, leaning on my arm, dragged one heavy foot after the other, that
he was looking his last. When we came out he was so exhausted that
instead of taking him to my hotel to dine, I called a carriage and drove
him straight to his own poor lodging. He had sunk into an extraordinary
lethargy; he lay back in the carriage, with his eyes closed, as pale as
death, his faint breathing interrupted at intervals by a sudden gasp,
like a smothered sob or a vain attempt to speak. With the help of the
old woman who had admitted me before, and who emerged from a dark back
court, I contrived to lead him up the long steep staircase and lay him on
his wretched bed. To her I gave him in charge, while I prepared in all
haste to seek a physician. But she followed me out of the room with a
pitiful clasping of her hands.

"Poor, dear, blessed gentleman," she murmured; "is he dying?"

"Possibly. How long has he been thus?"

"Since a certain night he passed ten days ago. I came up in the morning
to make his poor bed, and found him sitting up in his clothes before that
great canvas he keeps there. Poor, dear, strange man, he says his
prayers to it! He had not been to bed, nor since then, properly! What
has happened to him? Has he found out about the Serafina?" she
whispered, with a glittering eye and a toothless grin.

"Prove at least that one old woman can be faithful," I said, "and watch
him well till I come back." My return was delayed, through the absence
of the English physician, who was away on a round of visits, and whom I
vainly pursued from house to house before I overtook him. I brought him
to Theobald's bedside none too soon. A violent fever had seized our