-Viii- · V

My brother’s happiness and mine depend upon my having a son to offer as a husband to Florentina, who is as beautiful as the Mother of God, as the Immaculate Virgin Mary as they paint her when the angel comes to say to her: ‘The Lord is with thee...’ My blind lad would not do for the match... but my son Pablo with sight will be the fulfillment of all my dreams and the blessing of God entering my home.”

All were silent, deeply moved by the narrative, as touching as it was simple, of the good-hearted father. He raised his coarse, rough hand, hardened by the plow, to his eyes and wiped away a tear.

“What do you say to that, Teodoro?” asked Carlos of his brother.

“I say only that I have examined this case conscientiously, and that I find no sufficient grounds for saying: ‘It is incurable,’ as have said the famous physicians whom our friend has consulted. I do not guarantee a cure; but I do not believe it impossible. The catoptric examination I made yesterday does not indicate to me any retinal lesion or alteration of the optic nerves. If the retina is sound, everything comes down to removing an inconvenient partition.... The crystalline lens, turning opaque and sometimes hard as a stone, is what plays these rogueries upon us. If only all the organs performed their duties as they are bidden!... But there in that republic of the eye there are many idlers that atrophy....”

“So then it all reduces itself to a simple congenital cataract,” said the patriarch eagerly.

“Oh, no, sir; if that were all, we should be happy indeed! It would be enough to dismiss that official who performs his duty so badly.... He is ordered to give passage to the light, and instead of doing so, he becomes congested, altered, hardened, and turns opaque as a wall. There is something more, Don Francisco. The iris has a fissure. The pupil requires that we lay hands upon it. But at all that I laugh, if when I take possession of that eye so long asleep, I enter it and find the choroid and retina in good condition. If on the contrary, after I have set aside the lens, I enter with the light into my newly conquered palace and find myself face to face with total amaurosis.... If it were partial, we should have gained much; but if it is total.... Against the death of the nervous apparatus of vision we can do nothing. We are forbidden to meddle with the deep springs of life.... What can we do? Patience. The present case has strongly attracted my attention: there are signs that the inner chambers are not in bad case. Her Majesty the Retina is perhaps prepared to receive the rays of light that may be presented to her. His Highness the Vitreous Humor will probably be found in good health. If the long-standing lack of exercise of its functions has produced a touch of glaucoma... a sort of gloom... we will endeavor to set it right. All will be very well yonder in the royal chamber.... But I reflect upon another matter. The fissure and the cataract usually permit some light to enter, and our blind patient perceives no light at all. This has set me thinking.... True it is that the cortical layers are very opaque... the obstacles encountered by the light are very formidable.... We shall see, Don Francisco. Have you courage?”

“Courage? Do you ask if I have courage!” exclaimed Don Francisco with some emphasis.

“Great courage is required to face the following contingency....”

“Which is?”

“That your son should undergo a painful operation, and afterwards remain as blind as before.... I said to you: ‘The impossibility is not demonstrated; shall I perform the operation?’”

“And I answered, and now answer: ‘Let the operation be performed, and God’s will be done. Forward!’”

“Forward! You have uttered my own watchword.”

Don Francisco rose and clasped Teodoro’s hand, so like a lion’s paw, between both of his own.

“In this climate the operation can be performed in the early days of October,” said Golfín. “Tomorrow we will determine the treatment to which the patient must be subjected.... And now let us be going, for it feels chilly on these heights.”

Penáguilas offered his friends lodging and supper, but they would not accept. They all set out, together with Nela, whom Teodoro insisted on taking with him, and Don Francisco accompanied them as far as the works.

Invited by the silence and beauty of the night, they conversed on pleasant topics—some relating to the yield of the mines, others to the crops of the district. When the Golfíns entered their house, Don Francisco returned to his own alone and sad, walking slowly with his eyes fixed on the ground. He was thinking of the terrible days of anxiety and hope, of suspense and doubt, that were to come. On the way he met Choto, and both slowly climbed the wooden steps. The moon shone brightly, and the patriarch’s shadow went up before him, breaking upon the steps and leaping from tread to tread. The dog walked at his side. Don Francisco, having no other being to whom he could entrust the thoughts that weighed upon his brain, said aloud:

“Choto, what will happen?”