Falkner by Mary Shelley

Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a skilful surgeon, and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death, whose livid hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was attended by bad symptoms, and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to seek he awaited with courage, yet he no longer expressed an impatience of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the inroads of disease and the long-nourished sickness of his soul.

It had been a hard trial to Elizabeth to watch over him, while each day the surgeon's serious face gave no token of hope. But she would not despond, and in the end his recovery was attributed to her careful nursing. She never quitted his apartment except for a few hours' sleep; and, even then, her bed was placed in the chamber adjoining his. If he moved, she was roused and at his side, divining the cause of his uneasiness, and alleviating it. There were other nurses about him, and Vasili, the most faithful of all -- but she directed them, and brought that discernment and tact of which a woman only is capable. Her little soft hand smoothed his pillow, or, placed upon his brow, cooled and refreshed him. She scarcely seemed to feel the effects of sleepless nights and watchful days -- every minor sensation was merged in the hope and resolution to preserve him.