her own and Ada’s health, he took a long ride with Gamba and a few of the remaining Suliotes, and after being violently heated, and then drenched in a heavy shower, persisted in returning home in a boat, remarking with a laugh, in answer to a remonstrance, “I should make a pretty soldier if I were to care for such a trifle.”  It soon became apparent that he had caught his death.  Almost immediately on his return, he was seized with shiverings and violent pain.  The next day he rose as usual, and had his last ride in the olive woods.  On the 11th a rheumatic fever set in.  On the 14th, Bruno’s skill being exhausted, it was proposed to call Dr. Thomas from Zante, but a hurricane prevented any ship being sent.  On the 15th, another physician, Mr. Milligen, suggested bleeding to allay the fever, but Byron held out against it, quoting Dr. Reid to the effect that “less slaughter is effected by the lance than the lancet—­that minute instrument of mighty mischief;” and saying to Bruno, “If my hour is come I shall die, whether I lose my blood or keep it.”  Next morning Milligen induced him to yield, by a suggestion of the possible loss of his reason.  Throwing out his arm, he cried, “There! you are, I see, a d——­d set of butchers.  Take away as much blood as you like, and have done with it.”  The remedy, repeated on the following day with blistering, was either too late or ill-advised.  On the 18th he saw more doctors, but was manifestly sinking, amid the tears and lamentations of attendants who could not understand each other’s language.  In his last hours his delirium bore him to the field of arms.  He fancied he was leading the attack on Lepanto, and was heard exclaiming, “Forwards! forwards! follow me!” Who is not reminded of another death-bed, not remote in time from his, and the Tete d’armee of the great Emperor who with the great Poet divided the wonder of Europe?  The stormy vision passed, and his thoughts reverted home.  “Go to my sister,” he faltered out to Fletcher; “tell her—­go to Lady Byron—­you will see her, and say”—­nothing more could be heard but broken ejaculations:  “Augusta—­Ada—­my sister, my child.  Io lascio qualche cosa di caro nel mondo.  For the rest, I am content to die.”  At six on the evening of the 18th he uttered his last words, “[Greek:  Dei me nun katheudein];” and on the 19th he passed away.

Never perhaps was there such a national lamentation.  By order of Mavrocordatos, thirty-seven guns—­one for each year of the poet’s life—­ were fired from the battery, and answered by the Turks from Patras with an exultant volley.  All offices, tribunals, and shops were shut, and a general mourning for twenty-one days proclaimed.  Stanhope wrote, on hearing the news, “England has lost her brightest genius—­Greece her noblest friend;” and Trelawny, on coming to Mesolonghi, heard nothing in the streets but “Byron is dead!” like a bell tolling through the silence and the gloom.  Intending contributors to the cause of Greece turned