On the 16th he wrote a letter, but towards the evening he became worse, and a pound of blood was taken from him.  Still the disease was making progress, but Dr Bruno did not yet seem much alarmed; on the contrary, he thought were more blood removed his recovery was certain.  Fletcher immediately told his master, urging him to comply with the doctor’s wishes.  “I fear,” said his Lordship, “they know nothing about my disorder, but”—­and he stretched out his arm—­“here, take my arm and do whatever you like.”

On the 17th his countenance was changed; during the night he had become weaker, and a slight degree of delirium, in which he raved of fighting, had come on.  In the course of the day he was bled twice; in the morning, and at two in the afternoon.  The bleeding, on both occasions, was followed by fainting fits.  On this day he said to Fletcher, “I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week.  I know that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without anyone being able to save him; and I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying—­I am more fit to die than people think.”

On the 18th his Lordship first began to dread that his fate was inevitable.  “I fear,” said he to Fletcher, “you and Tita will be ill by sitting up constantly, night and day”; and he appeared much dissatisfied with his medical treatment.  Fletcher again entreated permission to send for Dr Thomas, at Zante:  “Do so, but be quick,” said his Lordship, “I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease; write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.”

Not a moment was lost in executing the order, and on Fletcher informing the doctors what he had done, they said it was right, as they now began to be afraid themselves.  “Have you sent?” said his Lordship, when Fletcher returned to him.—­“I have, my Lord.”

“You have done well, for I should like to know what is the matter with me.”

From that time his Lordship grew every hour weaker and weaker; and he had occasional flights of delirium.  In the intervals he was, however, quite self-possessed, and said to Fletcher, “I now begin to think I am seriously ill; and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed.”  Fletcher in reply expressed his hope that he would live many years, and execute them himself.  “No, it is now nearly over; I must tell you all without losing a moment.”

“Shall I go, my Lord, and fetch pen, ink, and paper.

“Oh, my God! no, you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short.  Now pay attention—­you will be provided for.”

“I beseech you, my Lord, to proceed with things of more consequence.”

His Lordship then added,