My uncle was breathing heavily.
"Count it," said he, feebly extending his hand.

Rayel counted his pulse-beats.
"Ninety-four, and growing quicker!" he exclaimed, turning toward me with a frightened look.
"It won't increase much," my uncle whispered, feebly, but with a cool and professional air.

"It will go down soon, and then death will follow." "Be calm, Rayel," he continued, almost sternly, as his son began weeping.

"Be calm, I say! That music! do you hear it, child?
Do you see what is passing now?
Tell it.

Let me hear you." "I cannot hear it," said Rayel, looking earnestly into his father's face.
"Hallucination!" he whispered, groping about until his hand rested on the head of his son, who was kneeling beside him.