He was dying: and three several doctors, hoisted over the heads of an
admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty lancets:
apoplexy--oh, of course, apoplexy: and they nodded to each other
confidentially.
Yes, he was dying: they might not move him now: he must die in his sins,
at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Perjury, robbery, and
murder--all had fastened on his soul, and were feeding there like
harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures ravening on the liver of
Prometheus. Guilt, vengeance, death had got hold of him, and rent him,
as wild horses tearing him asunder different ways; he lay there
gurgling, strangling, gasping, panting: none could help him, none could
give him ease; he was going on the dark, dull path in the bottom of that
awful valley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy; he
was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown us
all--pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in the fierce
extremity! His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his head dropped
back--he was dying--dying--dying--
On a sudden, he rallied! his blood had rushed back again from head to
heart, and all the doctors were deceived--again he battled, and fought,
and wrestled, and flung them from him; again he howled, and his eyes
glared lightning--mad? Yes, mad--stark mad! quick--quick--we cannot hold
him: save yourselves there!
But he only broke away from them to stand up free--then he gave one
scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in the dock, with a
crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth.
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