At this time the physicians, becoming still more alarmed, expressed a wish for a consultation; and proposed calling in, without delay, Dr. Freiber, the medical assistant of Mr. Millingen, and Luca Vaya, a Greek, the physician of Mavrocordato.  On hea[r]ing this, Lord Byron at first refused to see them; but being informed that Mavrocordato advised it, he said,—­“Very well, let them come; but let them look at me and say nothing.”  This they promised, and were admitted; but when one of them, on feeling his pulse, showed a wish to speak—­“Recollect,” he said, “your promise, and go away.”

It was after this consultation of the physicians[1], that, as it appeared to Count Gamba, Lord Byron was, for the first time, aware of his approaching end.  Mr. Millingen, Fletcher, and Tita had been standing round his bed; but the two first, unable to restrain their tears, left the room.  Tita also wept; but, as Byron held his hand, could not retire.  He, however, turned away his face; while Byron, looking at him steadily, said, half smiling, “Oh questa e una bella scena!” He then seemed to reflect a moment, and exclaimed, “Call Parry.”  Almost immediately afterwards, a fit of delirium ensued; and he began to talk wildly, as if he were mounting a breach in an assault,—­calling out, half in English, half in Italian, “Forwards—­forwards—­courage—­follow my example,” &c. &c.

[Footnote 1:  For Mr. Millingen’s account of this consultation, see Appendix.]

On coming again to himself, he asked Fletcher, who had then returned into the room, “whether he had sent for Dr. Thomas, as he desired?” and the servant answering in the affirmative, he replied, “You have done right, for I should like to know what is the matter with me.”  He had, a short time before, with that kind consideration for those about him which was one of the great sources of their lasting attachment to him, said to Fletcher, “I am afraid you and Tita will be ill with sitting up night and day.”  It was now evident that he knew he was dying; and between his anxiety to make his servant understand his last wishes, and the rapid failure of his powers of utterance, a most painful scene ensued.  On Fletcher asking whether he should bring pen and paper to take down his words—­“Oh no,” he replied—­“there is no time—­it is now nearly over.  Go to my sister—­tell her—­go to Lady Byron—­you will see her, and say ——­” Here his voice faltered, and became gradually indistinct; notwithstanding which he continued still to mutter to himself, for nearly twenty minutes, with much earnestness of manner, but in such a tone that only a few words could be distinguished.  These, too, were only names,—­“Augusta,”—­“Ada,”—­“Hobhouse,”—­“Kinnaird.”  He then said, “Now, I have told you all.”  “My Lord,” replied Fletcher, “I have not understood a word your Lordship has been saying.”—­“Not understand me?” exclaimed Lord Byron, with a look of the utmost distress, “what a pity!—­then it is too late; all is over.”—­“I hope not,” answered Fletcher; “but the Lord’s will be done!”—­“Yes, not mine,” said Byron.  He then tried to utter a few words, of which none were intelligible, except “my sister—­my child.”