"I agree with you," was Byron's reply; and he fell into a reverie from which no amount of persuasion could arouse him. On the 15th, Fletcher, whose faithful devotion divined the real condition of his master, again asked permission to be allowed to fetch Dr. Thomas; but the doctors of Missolonghi still persisted there was no cause for alarm. Until now, they had treated their patient with purgatives, which, as Byron had only taken a cup or two of broth during eight days, were much too strong remedies and could not have any desirable effect. They but increased the weakness, which was already extreme because of want of sleep. On the evening of the 15th, however, the doctors began to be uneasy, and talked of bleeding their patient; but he strenuously opposed this, asking Dr. Millingen if he thought the need for bleeding was urgent. The doctor replied that he believed he could put it off, without danger, until next day. So, on the evening of the 16th, they bled Byron in the right arm, taking sixteen ounces of greatly inflamed blood out of him. Dr. Bruno shook his head as he examined the blood. "I always told him he ought to be bled," he murmured, "but he would never let it be done." Then the doctors fell into a lengthy dispute over the time lost. Again Fletcher proposed to send to Zante for Dr. Thomas, but the doctors replied-- "It would be useless; before he could get here, your master will be either out of danger or dead." In the meantime the disease grew worse, and Dr. Bruno advised a second bleeding. Fletcher broke it to his master that the two doctors deemed another bleeding indispensable, and this time Lord Byron did not make any resistance; he held out his arm and said-- "Here is my arm: they may do what they wish." Then he added, "Did I not tell you, Fletcher, that they do not understand anything at all about my illness!" Byron grew weaker and weaker. On the 17th, they bled him in the morning, and twice again in the afternoon of the same day. He fainted away after each bleeding, and from that day he himself gave up all hope. "I cannot sleep," he said to Fletcher, "and you know that I have not had any sleep for a week; now, it is a fact that a man cannot live without sleep for any length of time; after a time he goes mad, and nothing can save him. I would rather blow my brains out ten times than go mad. I am not afraid of death, I shall watch its approach with more composure than people would believe." On the 18th, Byron was perfectly satisfied of his approaching end. "I fear," he said to Fletcher, "that Tita and you will both fall ill with nursing me like this, day and night." Still, both refused to take any rest. Fletcher had been wise enough to take away his master's pistols and dagger out of his reach, ever since the 16th, when he saw that the fever was likely to produce delirium. On the 18th, he repeated several times that the Missolonghi doctors did not understand his case at all.