Sir Geoffrey Carleon lived a long while after the death of his wife.
When he passed away at last, ten days or so later, it was painlessly of
the mortification of his broken limb, not of the pest, which went by him
as though it knew that he was already doomed.
All this time Hugh, Grey Dick, and David Day nursed him without ceasing.
Indeed with the exception of a woman so ancient and shrivelled that
nothing seemed able to harm her any more, no one else was left in the
great _palazzo_, for all the rest of the household had perished or fled
away. This woman, who was the grandmother of one of the servants, now
dead of the plague, cooked their food. Of such provision fortunately
there was much laid up in the storerooms for use in the winter, since
Lady Carleon had been a good and provident housewife.
So those three did not starve, although Sir Geoffrey would touch little
of the salted stuff. He existed on a few fruits when they could get
them, and after these were gone, on wine mingled with water.
At length came the end. For two days he had lain senseless. One night,
however, David, who was watching in his chamber, crept into the room
where Hugh slept hard by and told them that Sir Geoffrey was awake and
calling them. They rose and went to him. By the light of the moon which
shone in at the open window, that same window through which Lady Carleon
had looked toward England ere she passed away, they saw him lying
quietly, a happy smile upon his face.
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