Blair would weary out his little strength for the benefit of his companion, and yet win not one word of thanks for his kindly endeavors.

Yet he persevered, ever mingling in his stories and songs whispers of the only source of comfort for the afflicted, the only balm for the suffering soul.
Brimstone's wild and wicked life had poisoned the very sources and flow of his life's blood.

His was no flesh to heal, like that of a healthy child.
While Blair was daily making long strides towards health, fierce pains and burning inflammation seized on Brimstone's stunted limb.

Then no voice could soothe him, no words of comfort reach his ear.

He chafed and tossed upon his narrow couch like a wounded beast of the forest, and finally refused to suffer any hand to dress or touch the afflicted part.
Pain ceased at last, the end was near.