He dined well,
but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. We discussed our future
plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to Sir
Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations.
We talked of our future life in London, and so on. About half-past nine
he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself,
and we assisted him at his toilet. I then said the night prayers to him,
and whilst I was saying them a dog began that dreadful howl which the
superstitious say denotes a death. It disturbed me so dreadfully that
I got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter
to go out and see what was the matter with the dog. I then returned,
and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel. I gave
him Robert Buchanan's _Martyrdom of Madeleine_. I kissed him and got
into bed, and he was reading in bed.
"At twelve o'clock, midnight, he began to grow uneasy. I asked him what
ailed him, and he said, 'I have a gouty pain in my foot. When did I have
my last attack?' I referred to our journals, and found it was three
months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, 'You know that
the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy
gout in your feet every three months for your head and your general
health. Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and your next
will be due next January.
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