’Twas in these days Sir Jeoffry came to his end, it being in such way as had been often prophesied¹; and when this final hour came, there was but one who could give him comfort, and this was the daughter whose youth he had led with such careless evilness to harm.  
If he had wondered at her when she had been my Lady Dunstanwolde, as her Grace of Osmonde he regarded her with heavy awe².  Never had she been able to lead him to visit her at her house in town or at any other which was her home.  “’Tis all too grand for me, your Grace,” he would say; “I am a country yokel³, and have hunted and drank, and lived too hard to look well among town gentlemen.  I must be drunk at dinner, and when I am in liquor I am no ornament⁴ to a duchess’s drawing-room.  But what a woman you have grown,” he would say, staring at her and shaking his head.  “Each time I clap eyes on you ’tis to marvel⁵ at you, remembering what a baggage you were, and how you kept from slipping by the way.  There was Jack⁶ Oxon, now,” he added one day—“after you married Dunstanwolde, I heard a pretty tale of Jack—that he had made a wager⁷ among his friends in town—he was a braggart⁸ devil, Jack—that he would have you, though you were so scornful; and knowing him to be a liar⁹, his fellows said that unless he could bring back a raven¹⁰ lock six feet long to show them, he had lost his bet, for they would believe no other proof.  And finely they scoffed¹¹ at him when he came back saying that he had had one, but had hid it away for safety when he was drunk, and could not find it again.  They so flouted¹² and jeered¹³ at him that swords were drawn¹⁴, and blood as well.  But though he was a beauty and a crafty¹⁵ rake-hell fellow, you were too sharp for him.  Had you not had so shrewd a wit and strong a will, you would not have been the greatest duchess in England, Clo, as well as the finest woman.”
 
“Nay,” she answered—“in those days—nay, let us not speak of them!  I would blot¹⁶ them out—out.”
 
As time went by, and the years spent in drink and debauchery began to tell even on the big, strong body which should have served any other man bravely long past his threescore and ten, Sir Jeoffry drank harder and lived more wildly, sometimes being driven desperate by dulness, his coarse pleasures having lost their potency¹⁷.
 
“Liquor is not as strong as it once was,” he used to grumble¹⁸, “and there are fewer things to stir a man to frolic.  Lord, what roaring days and nights a man could have thirty years ago.”
 
So in his efforts to emulate¹⁹ such nights and days, he plunged²⁰ deeper and deeper into new orgies; and one night, after a heavy day’s hunting, sitting at the head of his table with his old companions, he suddenly leaned forward, staring with starting eyes at an empty chair in a dark corner.  His face grew purple, and he gasped²¹ and gurgled.
 
“What is’t, Jeoff?” old Eldershawe cried, touching²³ his shoulder with a shaking hand.  “What’s the man staring at, as if he had gone mad?”
 
“Jack,” cried Sir Jeoffry, his eyes still farther starting from their sockets²⁴.  “Jack! what say you?  I cannot hear.”
 
The next instant he sprang up, shrieking²⁶, and thrusting with his hands as if warding²⁷ something off.
 
“Keep back!” he yelled.  “There is green mould on thee.  Where hast thou been to grow mouldy?  Keep back!  Where hast thou been?”
 
His friends at table started up, staring at him and losing colour; he shrieked²⁸ so loud and strangely, he clutched his hair with his hands, and fell into his chair, raving²⁹, clutching, and staring, or dashing his head down upon the table to hide his face, and then raising it as if he could not resist being drawn in his affright to gaze again.  There was no soothing³⁰ him.  He shouted, and struggled with those who would have held him.  ’Twas Jack Oxon who was there, he swore—Jack, who kept stealing slowly nearer to him, his face and his fine clothes damp and green, he beat at the air with mad hands, and at last fell upon the floor, and rolled, foaming³¹ at the mouth.
 
They contrived³², after great strugglings, to bear him to his chamber³³, but it took the united strength of all who would stay near him to keep him from making an end of himself.  By the dawn of day his boon³⁴ companions stood by him with their garments torn to tatters, their faces drenched³⁵ with sweat, and their own eyes almost starting from their sockets; the doctor who had been sent for, coming in no hurry, but scowled³⁶ and shook his head when he beheld³⁷ him.
 
“He is a dead man,” he said, “and the wonder is that this has not come before.  He is sodden³⁸ with drink and rotten with ill-living, besides being past all the strength of youth.  He dies of the life he has lived.”
 
’Twas little to be expected that his boon companions could desert their homes and pleasures and tend his horrors longer than a night.  Such a sight as he presented did not inspire them to cheerful spirits.
 
“Lord,” said Sir Chris Crowell, “to see him clutch his flesh and shriek²⁵ and mouth, is enough to make a man live sober for his remaining days,” and he shook his big shoulders with a shudder⁴⁰.
 
“Ugh!” he said, “God grant I may make a better end.  He writhes⁴¹ as in hell-fire.”
 
“There is but one on earth who will do aught for him,” said Eldershawe.  “’Tis handsome Clo, who is a duchess; but she will come and tend him, I could swear.  Even when she was a lawless devil of a child she had a way of standing⁴² by her friends and fearing naught⁴³.”
 
So after taking counsel together they sent for her, and in as many hours as it took to drive from London, her coach stood before the door.  By this time all the household was panic-stricken and in hopeless disorder⁴⁴, the women-servants scattered⁴⁵ and shuddering⁴⁶ in far corners of the house; such men as could get out of the way having found work to do afield or in the kennels⁴⁷, for none had nerve to stay where they could hear the madman’s shrieks⁴⁸ and howls.
 
Her Grace, entering the house, went with her woman straight to her chamber, and shortly emerged therefrom, stripped of her rich apparel, and clad in a gown of strong blue linen⁴⁹, her hair wound close, her white hands bare of any ornament, save the band of gold which was her wedding-ring.  A serving-woman might have been clad so; but the plainness of her garb⁵⁰ but made her height, and strength, so reveal themselves, that the mere⁵¹ sight of her woke somewhat that was like to awe in the eyes of the servants who beheld her as she passed.
 
She needed not to be led, but straightway followed the awful sounds, until she reached the chamber behind whose door they were shut.  Upon the huge disordered bed, Sir Jeoffry writhed⁵², and tried to tear himself, his great sinewy⁵³ and hairy body almost stark⁵⁴.  Two of the stable men were striving to ho............