He had done all that he could. There was nothing left but to wait.

He paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as if he could
not bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not
endure to be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared
to speak to him, there was something so vacant and desperate in his
face.

At nightfall, on the second of those eternal days, he shut himself
in the library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of
smoke in the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which
the room was sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the
gloom with a close odor of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus
was tumbled in disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like
a man in whom the very spring of being is broken. Through the
darkness some one drew near. He did not even lift his head. A hand
touched him; a soft arm was laid over his shoulders. It was
Athenais, kneeling beside him and speaking very low:

"Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weaker
hour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he
laughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is
rising now. Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is
there nothing we can do? Is there no power that can save him? Is
there no one to pity us and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for
compassion and help; let us pray for his life!"

Yes; that was what he wanted--that was the only thing that could
bring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a
greater strength than his own, and cling to it and plead for mercy