By the dawn of day his boon companions stood by him with their garments torn to tatters, their faces drenched with sweat, and their own eyes almost starting from their sockets; the doctor who had been sent for, coming in no hurry, but scowled and shook his head when he beheld him.
"He is a dead man," he said, "and the wonder is that this has not come before.

He is sodden with drink and rotten with ill-living, besides being past all the strength of youth.

He dies of the life he has lived." 'Twas little to be expected that his boon companions could desert their homes and pleasures and tend his horrors longer than a night.

Such a sight as he presented did not inspire them to cheerful spirits.
"Lord," said Sir Chris Crowell, "to see him clutch his flesh and shriek and mouth, is enough to make a man live sober for his remaining days," and he shook his big shoulders with a shudder.
"Ugh!" he said, "God grant I may make a better end.

He writhes as in hell-fire." "There is but one on earth who will do aught for him," said Eldershawe.
"'Tis handsome Clo, who is a duchess; but she will come and tend him, I could swear.