The fever had deprived him of the last of his senses.
"Your hands!" he muttered at length.
She placed them upon his forehead.

She had done that repeatedly during the past day, and each time the effect had been marvelously soothing to the old man.

Now at the touch he drew a deep breath of relief.
"Even in hell," he whispered at length--"even in hell you come to me, Beatrice! I knew you would!" He caught her hands at the wrists; his fingers, despite his fever, were deadly cold, and a chill ate into her blood.
"I hear them yelling--the souls of the damned," he said quietly.

"You can't hear it ?" "No, no!" she said.

"I cannot hear!" "Of course not," he went on with the same lack of emotion; "for, you see, you've come from heaven, and the coolness of heaven is in your hands, Beatrice.