When Powell's self-command gave way so completely after he saw the nature of Guy's case, it was not because he knew it must end fatally, but because his skill told him what fearful agonies must precede the release. All the surgeons who were called in could do nothing but confirm these forebodings. The colossal strength and vital energy of Livingstone's frame and constitution yielded but slowly to a blow which would have crushed a weaker man instantly. All the outworks were ruined and carried, but Death had still to fight hard before he won the citadel. I can not go through the details; I will only say that, sometimes, none of us could endure to look upon sufferings which never drew a complaint or a moan from him.
Almost every pleasure has been discussed and dissected, but we know comparatively nothing of the physiology of pain. There is no standard by which to measure it, even if the courage and endurance of any mortal man could enable him to analyze his own tortures philosophically. Was it not always supposed that the guillotine is merciful, because quick in annihilation? Look at Wiertz's pictures at Brussels. If his idea (shared too, now, by many clever surgeons) be true, you will see the amount of a long life's suffering exceeded by what seems to us a minute's agony. But it is like the Eastern king's gaining the experience of fifty years by dipping his head for a second in the magic water. For a soul in torment there is no horologe.
Of one thing be sure; the strong temperaments who enjoy greatly, suffer greatly too--those who endure in silence, most of all. I think the wolf's death-pang is sharper than the hare's.
But Guy was not only patient, he was actually more cheerful than I had seen him since Constance died. He liked to see his old friends, and to hear accounts of their sport with hound and gun. To do these justice, there was not one who would not give up, gladly, the best meet of the Pytchley, or the shooting of the best cover in the county, to sit for half a day in that sick-room. He talked, too, always pleasantly and kindly to his mother and his cousin.
Poor Isabel Forrester was quite broken down by this second blow. Next to her dead husband, I believe, she loved Guy better than any one; not unnaturally, for he had petted and protected her all her life long. She could not help giving way, though she tried hard, for the sake of others. It was piteous to see her, sitting alone for hours, gazing out on the bleak winter landscape, while the tears welled slowly from under her heavy eyelids.