struggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to any
wrong. He sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered it
imperative that they should meet as foes. Delancey was wounded; and
as _he_ thought--and it was long doubtful whether it _were_
so--_mortally_. He beckoned George Delme to his bedside--begged him to
forgive him--told him that his friendship had been the greatest source
of delight to him--a friendship which in his dying moments he begged
to renew--that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution,
he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full and
entire forgiveness to die happy. George Delme wrung his hands in the
bitterness of despair--prayed him to live for his sake--told him, that
did he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepest
misery,--that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to his
grave. The surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which he
assured Delme was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot to
witness. This meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to have
a beneficial effect on the wounded man. He sunk into a sweet sleep;
and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical.
He improved gradually, and was now convalescent. But it was otherwise
with George Delme. He sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey to
the agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. He considered himself
instrumental in taking the life of his best friend--of one, richly
endowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. His nerves
previously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture his
imagination had conjured up. His servant was alarmed by startling
screams, entered his room, and found his master in fearful
convulsions. A fever ensued, during which George's life hung by a
thread. To this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness,
occasionally broken by wild delirium.