Selle, in Berlin, was sent for by express; he arrived about three of the afternoon: King seemed a little more conscious, knew those about him, "his face red rather than pale, in his eyes still something of their old fire." Towards evening the feverishness abated (to Selle, I suppose, a fatal symptom); the King fell into a soft sleep, with warm perspiration; but, on awakening, complained of cold, repeatedly of cold, demanding wrappage after wrappage ("KISSEN," soft QUILT of the old fashion);--and on examining feet and legs, one of the Doctors made signs that they were in fact cold, up nearly to the knee.

"What said he of the feet ?" murmured the King some time afterwards, the Doctor having now stepped out of sight.
"Much the same as before," answered some attendant.

The King shook his head, incredulous.
He drank once, grasping the goblet with both hands, a draught of fennel-water, his customary drink; and seemed relieved by it;--his last refection in this world.

Towards nine in the evening, there had come on a continual short cough, and a rattling in the breast, breath more and more difficult.

Why continue?
Friedrich is making exit, on the common terms; you may HEAR the curtain rustling down.