He felt greatly fatigued. The long journey from Milan, the anxiety of mind, the vigil by the side of the dead Dora, had all, no doubt, he thought, been too much for him. He looked around. The humble furniture of the place was all covered thick with dust. With a brush he removed the accumulation of months from the couch, and lay down. Yes, he was very tired, and there was that dull, dead pain in his side--in his chest, here. He wondered what it could be. In the old days he must have strained himself when working in this place. And yet he did not remember any particular strain. This pain might really be nothing more than the result of the overwork he endured here more than a year ago. This was the first time he had rested since he had last spoken to O'Donnell. It was very pleasant to rest here, secure from the sound and bustle of this tumultuous city. But Dora was resting even more quietly than he. There was no comparison between the blessed quiet of her beautiful young face and the harassed quiet he now endured. Oh, God! what a pain! What was that? For a moment he thought it might be death. CHAPTER XV. The pain in Lavirotte's chest did not last long, but when it had passed away he felt weak and dispirited. A while ago he had thought how good it was to be here, remote from the bustle and noise of the town below. Now he felt oppressed by the thought that he was feeble, had suffered from some acute and paralysing pain, and was practically out of the reach of human aid. This tower seemed indeed fated to take a prominent if not a final part in his career. He had, more than a year ago, narrowly escaped death in the vault beneath. Was he now threatened with death in this loft above? for he felt spent and broken, and as though the effort of getting down once more would be more than he ever would accomplish. It was plain to him something serious was the matter with him. Three or four times before this he had felt the same pain, followed by the same prostration of body and depression of mind. He had never consulted anyone about it. If it was serious, let it kill him. If it was not serious, why should he care? Why should he care about anything now? Dora was dead and his life was in ashes. True, he had not been as faithful to Dora as he might have been, but then who was perfect? And he had meant to marry Dora; and he would have married Dora only that Dora had died. He was too weary to take off his clothes. It was better for him to lie thus than to run the risk of again experiencing that terrible pain. The lassitude now was tolerable, and gradually the despondency was lifting. He would sleep, and upon waking should be refreshed. When it was day, no doubt he would wake, or a little after day. There was no great hurry. They were not going to bury Dora until noon; and he had come a long way, was overwrought, ill, and might indulge himself in a long, peaceful rest.