"Well, then," Fletcher replied for the tenth time, "let me go and fetch Dr. Thomas from Zante." "No, do not go.... Send for him, Fletcher, but be quick about it." Fletcher did not lose a second in despatching a messenger, and then he informed the two doctors that he had just sent for Dr. Thomas. "You were quite right," said they, "for we have ourselves begun to feel very anxious." On re-entering his master's room, Byron said to Fletcher-- "Well, have you sent?" "Yes, my lord." "Good! I wish to know what is the matter with me." A few moments later, he was seized with a fresh attack of delirium, and when he recovered consciousness, he remarked-- "I begin to believe I am seriously ill. If I am to die sooner than I expected, I desire to give you some instructions. Will you be sure to carry them out for me?" "Oh, my lord, you can be sure of my faithfulness," the valet replied; "but you will live for long enough yet, I hope, and be able to attend to your own affairs." "No," said Byron, shaking his head; "no, the end has come.... I must tell you everything, Fletcher, and without a moment's loss of time." "Shall I fetch pen and ink and paper, my lord?" asked the valet. "Oh no; we should waste too much time, and we have none to lose. Pay attention." "I am listening, my lord." "Your future is assured." "Oh! my lord," cried the poor valet, bursting into tears, "I entreat you to think of more important matters." "My child!" murmured the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if I could but have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my sister Augusta and to her children.... You must take it, too, to Lady Byron.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... you stand well in her estimation...." The dying man's voice failed him, and, although he made efforts to continue speaking, the valet could only make out disjointed expressions, from which, with the greatest difficulty, he gathered the following:-- "Fletcher ... if you do not carry out ... the orders I have given you ... I will haunt you ... if God will let me...." "But, my lord," cried the valet in despair, "I have not been able to hear a word of what you have been saying to me." "Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it is now too late.... Have you really not heard me?" "No, my lord; but try again to make me understand your wishes." "Impossible!... impossible!" murmured the dying man; "it is too late ... all is over ... and yet ... come close, come close, Fletcher ... I will try again." And he renewed his attempts, but all was in vain; he could only utter a few broken words, such as, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You know all ... you will tell them everything ... you know my wishes." Nothing more was intelligible. This was at midday on the 18th. The doctors held a fresh consultation, and decided to give the patient quinine in wine.