I kneeled over him--but in vain. He heard
nothing--he felt nothing--he knew nothing, but that extremity of
prostration to which a moment's respite would be Dives' drop of water--and
yet in such circumstances, any thing but a mercy. He could not bear, for a
moment, to think upon his own death--a moment's respite would only have
added new strength to the agony--He might _be_ dead; but could not "--die;"
and in the storm of my agitation and pity, I prayed to the Almighty to
relieve him at once from sufferings which seemed too horrible even to be
contemplated.
How long this tempest of despair continued, I do not know. All that I can
recall is, that after almost losing my own recollection under the
agitation of the scene, I suddenly perceived that his moans were less loud
and continuous, and that I ventured to look at him, which I had not done
for some space. Nature had become exhausted, and he was sinking gradually
into a stupor, which seemed something between sleep and fainting. This
relief did not continue long--and as soon as I saw him begin to revive
again to a sense of his situation, I made a strong effort, and lifting him
up, seated him again on the pallet, and, pouring out a small quantity of
wine, gave it him to drink, not without a forlorn hope that even wine
might be permitted to afford him some little strength to bear what
remained of his misery, and collect his ideas for his last hour.
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