Upon the conclusion of the old man's speech the stand was taken by a very young man, John Randolph of Roanoke, who undertook to address the crowd, offering himself to them as a candidate for Congress, but on behalf of the party then opposed to Patrick Henry. By reason of weariness, no doubt, the latter did not remain upon the platform; but having "requested a friend to report to him anything which might require an answer," he stepped back into the tavern. "Randolph began by saying that he had admired that man more than any on whom the sun had shone, but that now he was constrained to differ from him '_toto coelo_.'" Whatever else Randolph may have said in his speech, whether important or otherwise, was spoken under the disadvantage of a cold and a hoarseness so severe as to render him scarcely able to "utter an audible sentence." Furthermore, Patrick Henry "made no reply, nor did he again present himself to the people."[475] There is, however, a tradition, not improbable, that when Randolph had finished his speech, and had come back into the room where the aged statesman was resting, the latter, taking him gently by the hand, said to him, with great kindness: "Young man, you call me father. Then, my son, I have something to say unto thee: keep justice, keep truth,--and you will live to think differently." As a result of the poll, Patrick Henry was, by a great majority, elected to the House of Delegates. But his political enemies, who, for sufficient reasons, greatly dreaded his appearance upon that scene of his ancient domination, were never any more to be embarrassed by his presence there. For, truly, they who, on that March day, at Charlotte court-house, had heard Patrick Henry, "had heard an immortal orator who would never speak again."[476] He seems to have gone thence to his home, and never to have left it. About the middle of the next month, being too sick to write many words, he lifted himself up in bed long enough to tell the secretary of state that he could not go on the mission to France, and to send his dying blessing to his old friend, the President. Early in June, his eldest daughter, Martha Fontaine, living at a distance of two days' travel from Red Hill, received from him a letter beginning with these words: "Dear Patsy, I am very unwell, and have Dr. Cabell with me."[477] Upon this alarming news, she and others of his kindred in that neighborhood made all haste to go to him. On arriving at Red Hill "they found him sitting in a large, old-fashioned armchair, in which he was easier than upon a bed." The disease of which he was dying was intussusception. On the 6th of June, all other remedies having failed, Dr. Cabell proceeded to administer to him a dose of liquid mercury. Taking the vial in his hand, and looking at it for a moment, the dying man said: "I suppose, doctor, this is your last resort?" The doctor replied: "I am sorry to say, governor, that it is. Acute inflammation of the intestine has already